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POEMS 

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NEW  YORK 

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MCMXVI 


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CONTENTS 

THREE  DEDICATIONS  PAOE 

TO  EDMUND  CLERIHEW   BENTLEY  .  .  .II 

TO  HILAIRE  BELLOC 15 

TO  M.  E.  W 17 

WAR  POEMS 

LEPANTO 21 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  BLACK  MOUNTAIN    IQI3      .  29 
BLESSED   ARE   THE    PEACEMAKERS           .           .            -32 

THE  WIFE  OF  FLANDERS 34 

THE  CRUSADER  RETURNS  FROM  CAPTIVITY   .            .  36 

LOVE  POEMS 

GLEXCOE 41 

LOVE'S    TRAPPIST 42 

CONFESSIONAL 43 

MUSIC 44 

THE   DELUGE 45 

THE  STRANGE  MUSIC 46 

THE   GREAT   MINIMUM 48 

THE  MORTAL  ANSWERS           .           .           .           .           .  5O 

A   MARRIAGE   SONG 52 

BAY    COMBE  ••••••• 


95170? 


CONTENTS 
RELIGIOUS  POEMS 

THE  WISE  MEN 6l 

THE  HOUSE  OF  CHRISTMAS 63 

A  SONG  OF  GIFTS  TO  GOD 65 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN 68 

A  HYMN  FOR  THE  CHURCH  MILITANT  .  .  JO 

THE  BEATIFIC  VISION 72 

THE  TRUCE  OF  CHRISTMAS 74 

A   HYMN 76 

A  CHRISTMAS  SONG  FOR  THREE  GUILDS  .  .  77 

THE  NATIVITY 80 

A  CHILD  OF  THE   SNOWS 83 

A  WORD 84 


RHYMES  FOR  THE  TIMES 

ANTICHRIST,  OR  THE  REUNION  OF  CHRISTENDOM : 

AN   ODE 89 

THE  REVOLUTIONIST,  OR  LINES  TO  A  STATESMAN  Q2 
THE  SHAKESPEARE  MEMORIAL  .  .  .  -95 
THE  HORRIBLE  HISTORY  OF  JONES  .  .  .97 

THE   NEW    FREETHINKER IOO 

IN  MEMORIAM  P.  D IO2 

SONNET  WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  SEASON  IO4 

A   SONG  OF    SWORDS IO5 

A  SONG  OF  DEFEAT IO8 

SONNET 1 10 

AFRICA Ill 

THE  DEAD   HERO 112 

AN  ELECTION  ECHO 114 

6 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SONG  Of  THE  WHEELS Il6 

THE   SECRET   PEOPLE    .  .    I2O 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

LOST 127 

BALLAD  OF  THE  SUN I2Q 

TRANSLATION  FROM  DU  BELLAY  .        .        .        .ISO 

THE  HIGHER  UNITY 131 

THE  EARTH'S  VIGIL 133 

ON  RIGHTEOUS  INDIGNATION      .        .        .        .135 
WHEN  I  CAME  BACK  TQ  FLEET  STREET        .        .  137 

A  CIDER  SONG 140 

THE  LAST  HERO 142 

BALLADES 

BALLADE  D'UNE   GRANDE   DAME   ....    147 
A  BALLADE  OF  AN  ANTI-PURITAN  .  .  .149 

A    BALLADE   OF    A    BOOK-REVIEWER         .  .  .151 

A    BALLADE    OF   SUICIDE 153 

A  BALLADE  OF  THE  FIRST  RAIN  .  .  .  .155 


I 

THREE   DEDICATIONS 


TO  EDMUND  CLERIHEW  BENTLEY 

THE  DEDICATION  OF   THE  MAN  WHO  WAS 
THURSDAY 

A   CLOUD    was    on    the   mind    of    men,    and 
wailing  went  the  weather, 
Yea,   a  sick  cloud  upon  the   soul  when  we 

were  boys  together. 

Science  announced  nonentity  and  art  admired  decay; 
The  world  was  old  and  ended:  but  you  and  I  were 

gay. 

Round  us  in  antic  order  their  crippled  vices  came — 
Lust  that  had  lost  its  laughter,  fear  that  had  lost  its 

shame. 
Like  the  white  lock  of  Whistler,  that  lit  our  aimless 

gloom, 
Men  showed  their  own  white  feather  as  proudly  as 

a  plume. 

Life  was  a  fly  that  faded,  and  death  a  drone  that  stung; 
The  world  was  very  old  indeed  when  you  and  I  were 

young. 
They  twisted  even   decent  sin   to  shapes   not  to  be 

named : 

Men  were   ashamed   of  honour;   but  we   were  not 
ashamed. 

II 


TO  EDMUND   CLERIHEW  BENTLEY 

Weak  if  we  were  and  foolish,  not  thus  we  failed,  not 

thus; 
When  that  black  Baal  blocked  the  heavens  he  had  no 

hymns  from  us. 
Children  we  were — our  forts  of  sand  were  even  as 

weak  as  we, 
High  as  they  went  we  piled  them  up  to  break  that 

bitter  sea. 

Fools  as  we  were  in  motley,  all  jangling  and  absurd, 
When  all  church  bells  were  silent  our  cap  and  bells 

were  heard. 

Not  all  unhelped  we  held  the  fort,  our  tiny  flags 

unfurled  ; 
Some  giants  laboured  in  that  cloud  to  lift  it  from  the 

world. 
I  find  again  the  book  we  found,  I  feel  the  hour  that 

flings 
Far  out  of  fish-shaped  Paumanok  some  cry  of  cleaner 

things ; 
And  the  Green  Carnation  withered,  as  in  forest  fires 

that  pass, 
Roared  in  the  wind  of  all  the  world  ten  million  leaves 

of  grass; 
Or  sane  and  sweet  and  sudden  as  a  bird  sings  in  the 

rain — 

Truth  out  of  Tusitala  spoke  and  pleasure  out  of  pain. 
Yea,  cool  and  clear  and  sudden  as  a  bird  sings  in  the 

grey, 

Dunedin  to  Samoa  spoke,  and  darkness  unto  day. 
12 


TO   EDMUND   CLERIHEW  BENTLEY 

But  we  were  young;  we  lived   to  see  God   break 

their  bitter  charms, 
God   and   the   good   Republic  come   riding  back   in 

arms: 
We  have  seen  the  city  of  Mansoul,  even  as  it  rocked, 

relieved — 
Blessed  are  they  who  did  not  see,  but  being  blind, 

believed. 


This  is  a  tale  of  those  old  fears,  even  of  those  emptied 

hells, 
And  none  but  you  shall  understand  the  true  thing 

that  it  tells — 
Of  what  colossal  gods  of  shame  could  cow  men  and 

yet  crash, 
Of  what  huge  devils  hid  the  stars,  yet  fell  at  a  pistol 

flash. 
The  doubts  that  were  so  plain  to  chase,  so  dreadful 

to  withstand — 
Oh,  who  shall  understand  but  you;  yea,  who  shall 

understand  ? 
The  doubts  that  drove  us  through  the  night  as  we 

two  talked  amain, 
And  day  had  broken  on  the  streets  e'er  it  broke  upon 

the  brain. 
Between  us,  by  the  peace  of   God,  such  truth  can 

now  be  told ; 
Yea,  there  is  strength  in  striking  root,  and  good  in 

growing  old. 

13 


TO  EDMUND   CLERIHEW   BENTLET 

We  have  found  common  things  at  last,  and  marriage 

and  a  creed, 
And  I  may  safely  write  it  now,  and  you  may  safely 

read. 


TO  HILAIRE  BELLOC 

THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  NAPOLEON  OF 
NOT  TING  HILL 

FOR  every  tiny  town  or  place 
God  made  the  stars  especially; 
Babies  look  up  with  owlish  face 
And  see  them  tangled  in  a  tree: 
You  saw  a  moon  from  Sussex  Downs, 

A  Sussex  moon,  untravelled  still, 
I  saw  a  moon  that  was  the  town's, 
The  largest  lamp  on  Campden  Hill. 

Yea,  Heaven  is  everywhere  at  home, 

The  big  blue  cap  that  always  fits, 
And  so  it  is  (be  calm;  they  come 

To  goal  at  last,  my  wandering  wits), 
So  it  is  with  the  heroic  thing  ; 

This  shall  not  end  for  the  world's  end, 
And  though  the  sullen  engines  swing, 

Be  you  not  much  afraid,  my  friend. 

This  did  not  end  by  Nelson's  urn 
Where  an  immortal  England  sits — 

Nor  where  your  tall  young  men  in  turn 
Drank  death  like  wine  at  Austerlitz. 

15 


TO   HILAIRE   BELLOC 

And  when  the  pedants  bade  us  mark 
What  cold  mechanic  happenings 

Must  come;  our  souls  said  in  the  dark, 
"Belike;  but  there  are  likelier  things." 

Likelier  across  these  flats  afar, 

These  sulky  levels  smooth  and  free, 
The  drums  shall  crash  a  waltz  of  war 

And  Death  shall  dance  with  Liberty; 
Likelier  the  barricades  shall  blare 

Slaughter  below  and  smoke  above, 
And  death  and  hate  and  hell  declare 

That  men  have  found  a  thing  to  love. 

Far  from  your  sunny  uplands  set 

I  saw  the  dream ;  the  streets  I  trod, 
The  lit  straight  streets  shot  out  and  met 

The  starry  streets  that  point  to  God; 
The  legend  of  an  epic  hour 

A  child  I  dreamed,  and  dream  it  still, 
Under  the  great  grey  water-tower 

That  strikes  the  stars  on  Campden  HilL 


16 


TO  M.  E.  W. 

WORDS,  for  alas  my  trade  is  words,  a  barren 
burst  of  rhyme, 
Rubbed   by  a  hundred   rhymesters,   battered 

a  thousand  times, 
Take  them,  you,  that  smile  on  strings,   those  nobler 

sounds  than  mine, 

The  words  that  never  lie,  or  brag,  or  flatter,  or 
malign. 

I  give  a  hand  to  my  lady,  another  to  my  friend, 

To  whom  you  too  have  given  a  hand;  and  so  be- 
fore the  end 
We  four  may  pray,  for  all  the  years,  whatever  suns 

be  set, 

The  sole  two  prayers  worth  praying — to  live  and 
not  forget. 

The  pale  leaf  falls  in  pallor,  but  the  green  leaf  turns 

to  gold; 
We  that  have  found  it  good  to  be  young  shall  find 

it  good  to  be  old; 
Life  that  bringeth  the  marriage  bell,  the  cradle  and 

the  grave, 

Life  that  is  mean  to  the  mean  of  heart,  and  only 
brave  to  the  brave. 

17 


TO  M.  E.    W. 

In  the  calm  of  the  last  white  winter,  when  all  the 

past  is  ours, 
Old  tears  are  frozen  as  jewels,  old  storms  frosted 

as  flowers. 
Dear  Lady,  may  we  meet  again,  stand  up  again,  we 

four, 

Beneath  the  burden  of  the  years,  and  praise  the 
earth  once  more. 


18 


II 

WAR   POEMS 


LEPANTO 

WHITE  founts  falling  in  the   Courts  of  the 
sun, 
And  the  Soldan  of  Byzantium  is  smiling  as 

they  run; 
There  is  laughter  like  the  fountains  in  that  face  of 

all  men  feared, 

It  stirs  the  forest  darkness,  the  darkness  of  his  beard, 
It  curls  the  blood-red  crescent,  the  crescent  of  his  lips, 
For  the  inmost  sea  of  all  the  earth  is  shaktv  with 

his  ships. 
They  have   dared   the  white   republics  up   the   capes 

of  Italy, 
They  have  dashed  the  Adriatic  round  the  Lion  of 

the  Sea, 
And  the  Pope  has  cast  his  arms  abroad   for  agony 

and  loss, 
And  called  the  kings  of  Christendom  for  swords  about 

the  Cross. 

The  cold  queen  of  England  is  looking  in  the  glass; 
The  shadow  of  the  Valois  is  yawning  at  the  Mass; 
From  evening  isles  fantastical  rings  faint  the  Spanish 

gun, 
And  the  Lord  upon  the  Golden  Horn  is  laughing  in 

the  sun. 

ai 


LEPANTO 

Dim  drums  throbbing,  in  the  hills  half  heard, 
Where  only  on  a  nameless  throne  a  crownless  prince 

has  stirred, 
Where,  risen  from  a  doubtful  seat  and  half  attainted 

stall, 
The  last  knight  of  Europe  takes  weapons  from  the 

wall, 
The  last  and  lingering  troubadour  to  whom  the  bird 

has  sung, 
That   once   went   singing   southward    when    all    the 

world  was  young. 

In  that  enormous  silence,  tiny  and  unafraid, 
Comes   up   along   a  winding   road   the   noise  of   the 

Crusade. 

Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 
Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war, 
Stiff  flags  straining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 
In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old-gold, 
Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 
Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon, 

and  he  comes. 

Don  John  laughing  in  the  brave  beard  curled, 
Spurning  of  his  stirrups  like  the  thrones  of  all  the 

world, 

Holding  his  head  up  for  a  flag  of  all  the  free. 
Love-light  of  Spain — hurrah! 
Death-light  of  Africa! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  riding  to  the  sea. 
22 


LEPANTO 

Mahound  is  in  his  paradise  above  the  evening  star, 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.) 

He  moves  a  mighty  turban  on   the   timeless  houri's 

knees, 

His  turban  that  is  woven  of  the  sunsets  and  the  seas. 
He  shakes  the  peacock  gardens  as  he  rises  from  his 

ease, 
And  he  strides  among  the  tree-tops  and  is  taller  than 

the  trees, 
And  his  voice  through  all   the  garden  is  a  thunder 

sent  to  bring 

Black  Azrael  and  Ariel  and  Ammon  on  the  wing. 
Giants  and  the  Genii, 
Multiplex  of  wing  and  eye, 
Whose  strong  obedience  broke  the  sky 
When  Solomon  was  king. 


They  rush  in  red  and  purple  from  the  red  clouds  of 
the  morn, 

From  temples  where  the  yellow  gods  shut  up  their 
eyes  in  scorn; 

They    rise    in    green    robes   roaring   from    the    green 
hells  of  the  sea 

Where  fallen  skies  and  evil  hues  and  eyeless  creatures 
be; 

On   them   the   sea-valves    cluster    and    the   grey   sea- 
forests  curl, 

Splashed  with  a  splendid  sickness,  the  sickness  of  the 
pearl; 

23 


LEPANTO 

They  swell  in  sapphire  smoke  out  of  the  blue  cracks 

of  the  ground, — 
They  gather  and  they  wonder  and  give  worship  to 

Mahound. 
And  he  saith,   "Break  up  the  mountains  where   the 

hermit-folk  can  hide, 
And  sift  the  red  and  silver  sands  lest  bone  of  saint 

abide, 
And    chase   the    Giaours   flying   night   and    day,    not 

giving  rest, 
For  that  which  was  our  trouble  comes  again  out  of 

the  west. 
We  have  set  the  seal  of  Solomon  on  all  things  under 

sun, 
Of  knowledge  and  of  sorrow  and  endurance  of  things 

done, 
But  a  noise  is  in   the  mountains,   in  the  mountains, 

and  I  know 
The  voice  that  shook  our  palaces — four  hundred  years 

ago: 
It  is  he  that  saith  not  'Kismet' ;  it  is  he  that  knows  not 

Fate; 

It  is  Richard,  it  is  Raymond,  it  is  Godfrey  in  the  gate ! 
It  is  he  whose  loss  is  laughter  when  he  counts  the 

wager  worth, 
Put  down  your  feet  upon  him,  that  our  peace  be  on 

the  earth." 

For  he  heard  drums  groaning  and  he  heard  guns  jar, 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.) 
Sudden  and  still — hurrah! 
24 


LEPANTO 

Bolt  from  Iberia! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  gone  by  Alcalar. 

St.  Michael's  on  his  Mountain   in  the  sea-roads  of 

the  north 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  girt  and  going  forth.) 
Where  the  grey  seas  glitter  and  the  sharp  tides  shift 
And  the  sea-folk  labour  and  the  red  sails  lift. 
He  shakes  his  lance  of  iron  and  he  claps  his  wings  of 

stone ; 
The  noise  is  gone  through   Normandy;  the  noise  is 

gone  alone; 
The  North   is  full  of  tangled  things  and  texts  and 

aching  eyes 

And  dead  is  all  the  innocence  of  anger  and  surprise, 
And   Christian   killeth   Christian   in   a  narrow   dusty 

room, 
And   Christian   dreadeth    Christ   that   hath    a   newer 

face  of  doom, 
And    Christian    hateth    Mary    that    God    kissed    in 

Galilee, 

But  Don  John  of  Austria  is  riding  to  the  sea. 
Don  John  calling  through  the  blast  and  the  eclipse 
Crying  with   the  trumpet,   with   the  trumpet  of   his 

lips, 
Trumpet  that  sayeth  ha! 

Domino  gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  shouting  to  the  ships. 

25 


LEPANTO 

King  Philip's  in  his  closet  with  the  Fleece  about  his 

neck 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  armed  upon  the  deck.} 
The  walls  are  hung  with  velvet  that  is  black  and 

soft  as  sin, 
And  little  dwarfs  creep  out  of  it  and  little  dwarfs 

creep  in. 
He  holds   a  crystal  phial   that  has  colours  like   the 

moon, 
He   touches,    and    it   tingles,    and    he   trembles   very 

soon, 
And  his  face  is  as  a  fungus  of  a  leprous  white  and 

grey 
Like  plants   in   the  high   houses   that   are  shuttered 

from  the  day, 

And  death  is  in  the  phial  and  the  end  of  noble  work, 
But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  fired  upon  the  Turk. 
Don  John's  hunting,   and  his  hounds  have  bayed — 
Booms  away  past  Italy  the  rumour  of  his  raid. 
Gun  upon  gun,  ha!  ha! 
Gun  upon  gun,  hurrah! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  loosed  the  cannonade. 


The   Pope  was  in  his  chapel  before  day  or  battle 

broke, 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  hidden  in  the  smoke.) 
The  hidden  room  in  man's  house  where  God  sits  all 

the  year, 
26 


LEPANTO 

The  secret  window  whence  the  world   looks  small 
and  very  dear. 

He  sees  as  in  a  mirror  on  the  monstrous  twilight  sea 

The  crescent  of  his  cruel  ships  whose  name  is  mystery; 

They   fling  great   shadows   foe-wards,   making   Cross 
and  Castle  dark, 

They   veil    the   plumed   lions   on    the   galleys  of    St. 
Mark  ; 

And   above   the  ships   are  palaces  of   brown,   black- 
bearded  chiefs, 

And  below  the  ships  are  prisons,  where  with  multi- 
tudinous griefs, 

Christian  captives  sick  and  sunless,  all  a  labouring  race 
repines 

Like   a   race   in  sunken  cities,   like   a   nation   in  the 
mines. 

They  are  lost  like  slaves  that  swat,  and  in  the  skies 
of  morning  hung 

The  stair-ways  of  the  tallest  gods  when  tyranny  was 
young. 

They  are  countless,  voiceless,  hopeless  as  those  fallen 
or  fleeing  on 

Before  the  high  Kings'  horses  in  the  granite  of  Baby- 
lon. 

And  many  a  one  grows  witless  in  his  quiet  room  in 
hell 

Where  a  yellow  face  looks  inward  through  the  lattice 
of  his  cell, 

And  he  finds  his  God  forgotten,  and  he  seeks  no  more 
a  sign — 

27 


LEPANTO 

(But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  burst  the  battle-line!) 
Don  John  pounding  from  the  slaughter-painted  poop, 
Purpling  all  the  ocean  like  a  bloody  pirate's  sloop, 
Scarlet  running  over  on  the  silvers  and  the  golds, 
Breaking  of  the  hatches  up  and  bursting  of  the  holds, 
Thronging  of  the  thousands  up  that  labour  under  sea 
White  for  bliss  and  blind  for  sun  and  stunned  for 

liberty. 

Vivat  Hispania! 
Domino  Gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  set  his  people  free! 

Cervantes  on  his  galley  sets  the  sword  back  in  the 

sheath 

(Don  John  of  Austria  rides  homeward  with  a  wreath.) 
And  he  sees  across  a  weary  land  a  straggling  road  in 

Spain, 
Up  which  a  lean  and  foolish  knight  for  ever  rides  in 

vain, 
And  he  smiles,  but  not  as  Sultans  smile,  and  settles 

back  the  blade.  .  .  . 
(But   Don   John    of  Austria   rides   home   from    the 

Crusade.) 


28 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  BLACK 
MOUNTAIN 

1913 

WHAT  will  there  be  to  remember 
Of  us  in  the  days  to  be? 
Whose  faith  was  a  trodden  ember 

And  even  our  doubt  not  free; 
Parliaments  built  of  paper, 

And  the  soft  swords  of  gold 
That  twist  like  a  waxen  taper 

In  the  weak  aggressor's  hold; 
A  hush  around  Hunger,  slaying 

A  city  of  serfs  unfed ; 
What  shall  we  leave  for  a  saying 

Tc  praise  us  when  we  are  dead? 
But  men  shall  remember  the  Mountain 

That  broke  its  forest  chains, 
And  men  shall  remember  the  Mountain 

When  it  arches  against  the  plains: 
And  christen  their  children  from  it 

And  season  and  ship  and  street, 
When  the  Mountain  came  to  Mahomet 

And  looked  small  before  his  feet. 

His  head  was  as  high  as  the  crescent 
Of  the  moon  that  seemed  his  crown, 

29 


MARCH   OF   THE  BLACK  MOUNTAIN 

And  on  glory  of  past  and  present 

The  light  of  his  eyes  looked  down; 
One  hand  went  out  to  the  morning 

Over  Brahmin  and  Buddhist  slain, 
And  one  to  the  West  in  scorning 

To  point  at  the  scars  of  Spain; 
One  foot  on  the  hills  for  warden 

By  the  little  Mountain  trod; 
And  one  was  in  a  garden 

And  stood  on  the  grave  of  God. 
But  men  shall  remember  the  Mountain, 

Though  it  fall  down  like  a  tree, 
They  shall  see  the  sign  of  the  Mountain 

Faith  cast  into  the  sea; 
Though  the  crooked  swords  overcome  it 

And  the  Crooked  Moon  ride  free, 
When  the  Mountain  comes  to  Mahomet 

It  has  more  life  than  he. 


But  what  will  there  be  to  remember 

Or  what  will  there  be  to  see — 
Though  our  towns  through   a  long  November 

Abide  to  the  end  and  be? 
Strength  of  slave  and  mechanic 

Whose  iron  is  ruled  by  gold, 
Peace  of  immortal  panic, 

Love  that  is  hate  grown  cold — 
Are  these  a  bribe  or  a  warning 

That  we  turn  not  to  the  sun, 
30 


MARCH   OF   THE  B'i.ACK  MOUNTAIN 

Nor  look  on  the  lands  of  morning 

Where  deeds  at  last  are  done? 
Where  men  shall  remember   the  Mountain 

When  truth  forgets  the  plain — 
And  walk  in  the  way  of  the  Mountain 

That  did  not  fail  in  vain; 
Death  and  eclipse  and  comet, 

Thunder  and  seals  that  rend: 
When  the  Mountain  came  to  Mahomet; 

Because  it  was  the  end. 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  PEACEMAKERS 


O 


F  old  with  a  divided  heart 

I  saw  my  people's  pride  expand, 
Since  a  man's  soul  is  torn  apart 
By  mother  earth  and  fatherland. 


I  knew,   through  many  a  tangled  tale, 
Glory  and  truth  not  one  but  two: 

King,  Constable,  and  Amirail 

Took  me  like  trumpets:  but  I  knew 

A  blacker  thing  than  blood's  own  dye 
Weighed  down  great  Hawkins  on  the  sea; 

And  Nelson  turned  his  blindest  eye 
On  Naples  and  on  liberty. 

Therefore  to  you  my  thanks,  O  throne, 
O  thousandfold  and  frozen  folk, 

For  whose  cold  frenzies  all  your  own 
The  Battle  of  the  Rivers  broke; 

Who  have  no  faith  a  man  could  mourn, 

Nor  freedom  any  man  desires; 
But  in  a  new  clean  light  of  scorn 

Close  up  my  quarrel  with  my  sires; 
32 


BLESSED   ARE    THE  PEACEMAKERS 

Who  bring  my  English  heart  to  me, 
Who  mend  me  like  a  broken  toy; 

Till  I  can  see  you  fight  and  flee, 
And  laugh  as  if  I  were  a  boy. 


33 


THE  WIFE  OF  FLANDERS 

LOW  and  brown  barns  thatched  and  repatched 
and  tattered 
Where  I  had  seven  sons  until  to-day, 
A  little  hill  of  hay  your  spur  has  scattered.  .  .  . 
This  is  not  Paris.    You  have  lost  the  way. 

You,  staring  at  your  sword  to  find  it  brittle, 

Surprised  at  the  surprise  that  was  your  plan, 

Who  shaking  and  breaking  barriers  not  a  little 
Find  never  more  the  death-door  of  Sedan. 

Must  I  for  more  than  carnage  call  you  claimant, 
Paying  you  a  penny  for  each  son  you  slay? 

Man,  the  whole  globe  in  gold  were  no  repayment 
For  what  you  have  lost.     And  how  shall  I  repay? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  red  spark  that  caught  me 
From  a  kind  farm  that  never  had  a  name? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  dead  man  they  brought 

me? 
For  other  dead  men  do  not  look  the  same. 

How  should  I  pay  for  one  poor  graven  steeple 
Whereon  you  shattered  what  you  shall  not  know, 

How  should  I  pay  you,  miserable  people? 
How  should  I  pay  you  everything  you  owe? 

34 


THE    WIFE   OF  FLANDERS 

Unhappy,  can  I  give  you  back  your  honour? 

Though  I  forgave  would  any  man  forget? 
While  all  the  great  green  land  has  trampled  on  her 

The  treason  and  terror  of  the  night  we  met. 

Not  any  more  in  vengeance  or  in  pardon 
An  old  wife  bargains  for  a  bean  that's  hers. 

You  have  no  word  to  break:  no  heart  to  harden. 
Ride  on  and  prosper.     You  have  lost  your  spurs. 


35 


THE  CRUSADER  RETURNS  FROM 
CAPTIVITY 

1HAVE  come  forth  alive  from  the  land  of  purple 
and  poison  and  glamour, 
Where  the  charm  is  strong  as  the  torture,  being 

chosen  to  change  the  mind; 
Torture  of  wordless  dance  and  wineless  feast  without 

clamour, 

Palace    hidden    in    palace,    garden    with    garden 
behind ; 

Women  veiled  in  the  sun,  or  bare  as  brass  in  the 

shadows, 
And  the  endless  eyeless  patterns  where  each  thing 

seems  an  eye.  .  .  . 
And  my  stride  is  on  Caesar's  sand  where  it  slides  to 

the  English  meadows, 

To  the  last  low  woods  of  Sussex  and  the  road  that 
goes  to  Rye. 

In  the  cool  and  careless  woods  the  eyes  of  the  eunuchs 

burned  not, 
But   the  wild   hawk  went   before  me,   being   free 

to  return  or  roam, 

The  hills  had  broad  unconscious  backs;  and  the  tree- 
tops  turned  not, 
And  the  huts  were  heedless  of  me:  and  I  knew 

I  was  at  home. 
36 


CRUSADER   RETURNS  FROM   CAPTIFITT 

And  I  saw  my  lady  afar  and  her  holy  freedom  upon 

her, 
A  head,  without  veil,  averted,  and  not  to  be  turned 

with  charms, 
And   I   heard   above  bannerets  blown   the   intolerant 

trumpets  of  honour, 

That    usher    with    iron    laughter    the    coming   of 
Christian  arms. 

My  shield  hangs  stainless  still;  but  I  shall  not  go 

where  they  praise  it, 
A  sword  is  still  at  my  side,  but  I  shall  not  ride 

with  the  King. 
Only  to  walk  and  to  walk  and  to  stun  my  soul  and 

amaze  it, 

A  day  with  the  stone  and  the  sparrow  and  every 
marvellous  thing. 

I  have  trod  the  curves  of  the  Crescent,  in  the  maze 

of  them  that  adore  it, 
Curved  around  doorless  chambers  and  unbeholden 

abodes, 
But  I  walk  in  the  maze  no  more;  on  the  sign  of 

the  cross  I  swore  it, 

The  wild  white  cross  of  freedom,  the  sign  of  the 
white  cross-roads. 

And  the  land  shall  leave  me  or  take,  and  the  Woman 

take  me  or  leave  me, 

There  shall  be  no  more  Night,  or  nightmares  seen 
in  a  glass; 

37 


CRUSADER  RETURNS  FROM   CAPTIVITY 

But  Life  shall  hold  me  alive,  and  Death  shall  never 

deceive  me 

As  long  as  I  walk  in  England  in  the  lanes  that  let 
me  pass. 


38 


Ill 

LOVE   POEMS 


GLENCOE 

THE  star-crowned  cliffs  seem  hinged  upon  the 
sky, 
The    clouds    are    floating    rags    across    them 

curled, 

They  open  to  us  like  the  gates  of  God 
Cloven  in  the  last  great  wall  of  all  the  world. 

I  looked,  and  saw  the  valley  of  my  soul 
Where  naked  crests  fight  to  achieve  the  skies, 
Where  no  grain  grows  nor  wine,  no  fruitful  thing, 
Only  big  words  and  starry  blasphemies. 

But  you  have  clothed  with  mercy  like  a  moss 

The  barren  violence  of  its  primal  wars, 

Sterile  although  they  be  and  void  of  rule, 

You  know  my  shapeless  crags  have  loved  the  stars. 

How  shall  I  thank  you,  O  courageous  heart, 
That  of  this  wasteful  world  you  had  no  fear; 
But  bade  it  blossom  in  clear  faith  and  sent 
Your  fair  flower-feeding  rivers:  even  as  here 

The  peat  burns  brimming  from  their  cups  of  stone 
Glow  brown  and  blood-red  down  the  vast  decline 
As  if  Christ  stood  on  yonder  clouded  peak 
And  turned  its  thousand  waters  into  wine. 

41 


LOVE'S  TRAPPIST 

THERE    is   a   place  where   lute   and   lyre  arc 
broken, 
Where  scrolls  are  torn  and  on  a  wild  wind  go, 
Where  tablets  stand  wiped  naked  for  a  token, 
Where  laurels  wither  and  the  daisies  grow. 

Lo :  I  too  join  the  brotherhood  of  silence, 

I  am  Love's  Trappist  and  you  ask  in  vain, 

For  man  through  Love's  gate,  even  as  through  Death's 

gate, 
Goeth  alone  and  comes  not  back  again. 

Yet  here  I  pause,  look  back  across  the  threshold, 
Cry  to  my  brethren,  though  the  world  be  old, 
Prophets  and  sages,  questioners  and  doubters, 
O  world,  old  world,  the  best  hath  ne'er  been  told! 


CONFESSIONAL 

NOW  that  I  kneel  at  the  throne,  O  Queen, 
Pity  and  pardon   me. 
Much  have  I  striven  to  sing  the  same, 
Brother  of  beast  and  tree; 
Yet  when  the  stars  catch  me  alone 
Never  a  linnet  sings — 
And  the  blood  of  a  man  is  a  bitter  voice 
And  cries  for  foolish  things. 

Not  for  me  be  the  vaunt  of  woe; 

Was  not  I  from  a  boy 

Vowed  with  the  helmet  and  spear  and  spur 

To  the  blood-red  banner  of  joy? 

A  man  may  sing  his  psalms  to  a  stone, 

Pour  his  blood  for  a  weed, 

But  the  tears  of  a  man  are  a  sudden  thing, 

And  come  not  of  his  creed. 

Nay,  but  the  earth  is  kind  to  me, 

Though  I  cry  for  a  star, 

Leaves  and  grasses,  feather  and  flower, 

Cover  the  foolish  scar, 

Prophets  and  saints  and  seraphim 

Lighten  the  load  with  song, 

And  the  heart  of  a  man  is  a  heavy  load 

For  a  man  to  bear  along. 

43 


MUSIC 

SOUNDING  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal, 
He  that  made  me  sealed  my  ears, 
And  the  pomp  of  gorgeous  noises, 
Waves  of  triumph,  waves  of  tears, 

Thundered  empty  round  and  past  me, 

Shattered,  lost  for  ever  more, 
Ancient  gold  of  pride  and  passion, 

Wrecked  like  treasure  on  a  shore. 

But  I  saw  her  cheek  and  forehead 

Change,  as  at  a  spoken  word, 
And  I  saw  her  head  uplifted 

Like  a  lily  to  the  Lord. 

Nought  is  lost,  but  all  transmuted, 
Ears  are  sealed,  yet  eyes  have  seen ; 

Saw  her  smiles  (O  soul  be  worthy!), 
Saw  her  tears  (O  heart  be  clean!). 


44 


THE  DELUGE 

THOUGH  giant  rains  put  out  the  sun, 
Here  stand  I  for  a  sign. 
Though  Earth  be  filled  with  waters  dark, 
My  cup  is  filled  with  wine. 
Tell  to  the  trembling  priests  that  here 

Under  the  deluge  rod, 
One  nameless,  tattered,  broken  man 
Stood  up  and  drank  to  God. 

Sun  has  been  where  the  rain  is  now, 

Bees  in  the  heat  to  hum, 
Haply  a  humming  maiden  came, 

Now  let  the  Deluge  come: 
Brown  of  aureole,  green  of  garb, 

Straight  as  a  golden  rod, 
Drink   to   the   throne   of   thunder   now! 

Drink  to  the  wrath  of  God. 

High  in  the  wreck  I  held  the  cup, 

I  clutched  my  rusty  sword, 
I  cocked  my  tattered  feather 

To  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 
Not  undone  were  the  heaven  and  earth, 

This  hollow  world  thrown  up, 
Before  one  man  had  stood  up  straight, 

And  drained  it  like  a  cup. 

45 


THE  STRANGE  MUSIC 

OTHER  loves  may  sink  and  settle,  other  loves 
may  loose  and  slack, 
But  I  wander  like  a  minstrel  with  a  harp 

upon  his  back, 
Though  the  harp  be  on  my  bosom,  though  I  finger 

and  I  fret, 

Still,  my  hope  is  all  before  me:  for  I  cannot  play  it 
yet. 


In  your  strings  is  hid  a  music  that  no  hand  hath  ere 

let  fall, 
In  your  soul  is  sealed  a  pleasure  that  you  have  not 

known  at  all; 
Pleasure  subtle  as  your  spirit,  strange  and  slender  as 

your  frame, 
Fiercer  than  the  pain  that  folds  you,  softer  than  your 

sorrow's  name. 


Not  as  mine,   my  soul's  anointed,  not  as  mine  the 

rude  and  light 
Easy  mirth  of  many  faces,  swaggering  pride  of  song 

and  fight; 
46 


THE   STRANGE   MUSIC 

Something    stranger,    something    sweeter,    something 

waiting  you  afar, 
Secret  as  your  stricken  senses,  magic  as  your  sorrows 

are. 

But  on  this,  God's  harp  supernal,  stretched  but  to  be 

stricken  once, 
Hoary  Time  is  a  beginner,  Life  a  bungler,  Death  a 

dunce. 
But  I  will  not  fear  to  match  them — no,  by  God,  I 

will  not  fear, 
I  will  learn  you,  I  will  play  you  and  the  stars  stand 

still  to  hear. 


47 


THE  GREAT  MINIMUM 

IT  is  something  to  have  wept  as  we  have  wept, 
It  is  something  to  have  done  as  we  have  done, 
It  is  something  to  have  watched  when  all  men 

slept, 
And  seen  the  stars  which  never  see  the  sun. 

It  is  something  to  have  smelt  the  mystic  rose, 
Although  it  break  and  leave  the  thorny  rods, 
It  is  something  to  have  hungered  once  as  those 
Must  hunger  who  have  ate  the  bread  of  gods. 

To  have  seen  you  and  your  unforgotten  face, 

Brave  as  a  blast  of  trumpets  for  the  fray, 

Pure  as  white  lilies  in  a  watery  space, 

It  were  something,  though  you  went  from  me  to-day. 

To  have  known  the  things  that  from  the  weak  are 

furled, 

Perilous  ancient  passions,  strange  and  high; 
It  is  something  to  be  wiser  than  the  world, 
It  is  something  to  be  older  than  the  sky. 

In  a  time  of  sceptic  moths  and  cynic  rusts, 
And  fatted  lives  that  of  their  sweetness  tire, 
In  a  world  of  flying  loves  and  fading  lusts, 
It  is  something  to  be  sure  of  a  desire. 
48 


THE    GREAT  MINIMUM 

Lo,  blessed  are  our  ears  for  they  have  heard; 
Yea,  blessed  are  our  eyes  for  they  have  seen: 
Let  thunder  break  on  man  and  beast  and  bird 
And  the  lightning.  It  is  something  to  have  been. 


49 


THE  MORTAL  ANSWERS 

COME  AWAY — 

WITH  THE  FAIRIES,   HAND  IN   HAND, 
FOR  THE  WORLD  IS  MORE  FULL  OF  WEEPING 
THAN   YOU    CAN    UNDERSTAND. 

W.  B.    Yeats. 

FROM  the  Wood  of  the  Old  Wives'  Fables 
They  glittered  out  of  the  grey, 
And  with  all  the  Armies  of  Elf-land 
I  strove  like  a  beast  at  bay; 

With  only  a  right  arm  wearied, 

Only  a  red  sword  worn, 
And  the  pride  of  the  House  of  Adam 

That  holdeth  the  stars  in  scorn. 

For  they  came  with  chains  of  flowers 

And  lilies  lances  free, 
There  in  the  quiet  greenwood 

To  take  my  grief  from  me. 

And  I  said,  "Now  all  is  shaken 

When  heavily  hangs  the  brow, 
When  the  hope  of  the  years  is  taken 

The  last  star  sunken.     Now — 
50 


THE  MORTAL  ANSWERS 

"Hear,  you  chattering  cricket, 
Hear,  you  spawn  of  the  sod, 

The  strange  strong  cry  in  the  darkness 
Of  one  man  praising  God, 

"That  out  of  the  night  and  nothing 
With  travail  of  birth  he  came 

To  stand  one  hour  in  the  sunlight 
Only  to  say  her  name. 

"Falls  through  her  hair  the  sunshine 
In  showers;  it  touches,  see, 

Her  high  bright  cheeks  in  turning; 
Ah,  Elfin  Company, 

"The  world  is  hot  and  cruel, 
We  are  weary  of  heart  and  hand, 

But  the  world  is  more  full  of  glory 
Than  you  can  understand." 


A  MARRIAGE  SONG 

WHY  should  we  reck  of  hours  that  rend 
While  we  two  ride  together? 
The  heavens  rent  from  end  to  end 
Would  be  but  windy  weather, 
The  strong  stars  shaken  down  in  spate 

Would   be   a  shower  of  spring, 
And  we  should  list  the  trump  of  fate 
And  hear  a  linnet  sing. 

We  break  the  line  with  stroke  and  luck, 

The  arrows  run  like  rain, 
If  you  be  struck,  or  I  be  struck, 

There's  one  to  strike  again. 
If  you  befriend,  or  I  befriend, 

The  strength  is  in  us  twain, 
And  good  things  end  and  bad  things  end, 

And  you  and  I  remain. 

Why  should  we  reck  of  ill  or  well 

While  we  two  ride  together? 
The  fires  that  over  Sodom  fell 

Would  be  but  sultry  weather. 
Beyond  all  ends  to  all  men  given 

Our  race  is  far  and  fell, 
We  shall  but  wash  our  feet  in  heaven, 

And  warm  our  hands  in  hell. 
52 


A  MARRIAGE  SONG 

Battles  unborn  and  vast  shall  view 

Our  faltered  standards  stream, 
New  friends  shall  come  and  frenzies  new, 

New  troubles  toil  and  teem; 
New  friends  shall  pass  and  still  renew 

One  truth  that  does  not  seem, 
That  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

And  Death  a  morning  dream. 

Why  should  we  reck  of  scorn  or  praise 

While  we  two  ride  together? 
The  icy  air  of  godless  days 

Shall  be  but  wintry  weather. 
If  hell  were  highest,  if  the  heaven 

Were  blue  with  devils  blue, 
I  should  have  guessed  that  all  was  even, 

If  I  had  dreamed  of  you. 

Little  I  reck  of  empty  prides, 

Of  creeds  more  cold  than  clay; 
To  nobler  ends  and  longer  rides, 

My  lady  rides  to-day. 
To  swing  our  swords  and  take  our  sides 

In  that  all-ending  fray 
When  stars  fall  down  and  darkness  hides, 

When  God  shall  turn  to  bay. 

Why  should  we  reck  of  grin  and  groan 

While  we  two  ride  together? 
The  triple  thunders  of  the  throne 

Would  be  but  stormy  weather. 

53 


A   MARRIAGE  SONG 

For  us  the  last  great  fight  shall  roar, 
Upon  the  ultimate  plains, 

And  we  shall  turn  and  tell  once  more 
Our  love  in  English  lanes. 


54 


BAY  COMBE 

WITH  leaves  below  and  leaves  above, 
And  groping  under  tree  and  tree, 
I  found  the  home  of  my  true  love, 
Who  is  a  wandering  home  for  me. 

Who,  lost  in  ruined  worlds  aloof, 
Bore  the  dread  dove  wings  like  a  roof; 
Who,  past  the  last  lost  stars  of  space 
Carried  the  fire-light  on  her  face. 

Who,  passing  as  in  idle  hours, 
Tamed  the  wild  weeds  to  garden  flowers; 
Stroked  the  strange  whirlwind's  whirring  wings, 
And  made  the  comets  homely  things. 

Where  she  went  by  upon  her  way 
The  dark  was  dearer  than  the  day; 
Where  she  paused  in  heaven  or  hell, 
The  whole  world's  tale  had  ended  well. 

With  leaves  below  and  leaves  above. 
And  groping  under  tree  and  tree, 
I  found  the  home  of  my  true  love. 
Who  is  a  wandering  home  for  me. 

55 


BAY  COMBE 

Where  she  was  flung,  above,  beneath, 
By  the  rude  dance  of  life  and  death, 
Grow  she  at  Gotham — die  at  Rome, 
Between  the  pine  trees  is  her  home. 

In  some  strange  town,  some  silver  morn, 
She  may  have  wandered  to  be  born; 
Stopped  at  some  motley  crowd  impressed, 
And  called  them  kinsfolk  for  a  jest. 

If  we  again  in  goodness  thrive, 
And  the  dead  saints  become  alive, 
Then  pedants  bald  and  parchments  brown 
May  claim  her  blood  for  London  town. 

But  leaves  below  and  leaves  abovet 
And  groping  under  tree  and  tree, 
I  found  the  home  of  my  true  love, 
Who  is  a  wandering  home  for  me. 

The  great  gravestone  she  may  pass  by, 
And  without  noticing,  may  die; 
The  streets  of  silver  Heaven  may  tread, 
With  her  grey  awful  eyes  unfed. 

The  city  of  great  peace  in  pain 
May  pass,  until  she  find  again 
This  little  house  of  holm  and  fir 
God  built  before  the  stars  for  her. 
56 


BAY   COMBE 

Here  in  the  fallen  leaves  is  furled 
Her  secret  centre  of  the  world. 
We  sit  and  feel  in  dusk  and  dun 
The  stars  swing  round  us  like  a  sun. 

For  leaves  below  and  leaves  above, 
And  groping  under  tree  and  tree, 
I  found  the  home  of  my  true  love, 
Who  is  a  wandering  home  for  me. 


57 


IV 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


THE  WISE  MEN 

STEP  softly,  under  snow  or  rain, 
To  find  the  place  where  men  can  pray; 
The  way  is  all  so  very  plain 
That  we  may  lose  the  way. 

Oh,  we  have  learnt  to  peer  and  pore 

On  tortured  puzzles  from  our  youth, 
We  know  all  labyrinthine  lore, 
We  are  the  three  wise  men  of  yore, 

And  we  know  all  things  but  the  truth. 

We  have  gone  round  and  round  the  hill, 

And  lost  the  wood  among  the  trees, 
And  learnt  long  names  for  every  ill, 
And  served  the  mad  gods,  naming  still 

The  Furies  the  Eumenides. 

The  gods  of  violence  took  the  veil 

Of  vision  and  philosophy, 
The  Serpent  that  brought  all  men  bale, 
He  bites  his  own  accursed  tail, 

And  calls  himself  Eternity. 

Go  humbly  ...  it  has  hailed  and  snowed  .  i  § 

With  voices  low  and  lanterns  lit; 
So  very  simple  is  the  road, 

That  we  may  stray  from  it. 

61 


THE    WISE   MEN 

The  world  grows  terrible  and  white, 

And  blinding  white  the  breaking  day; 
We  walk  bewildered  in  the  light, 
For  something  is  too  large  for  sight, 
And  something  much  too  plain  to  say. 

The  Child  that  was  ere  worlds  begun 

( .  .  .  We  need  but  walk  a  little  way, 
We  need  but  see  a  latch  undone  .  .  .) 
The  Child  that  played  with  moon  and  sun 
Is  playing  with  a  little  hay. 

The  house  from  which  the  heavens  are  fed, 

The  old  strange  house  that  is  our  own, 
Where  tricks  of  words  are  never  said, 
And  Mercy  is  as  plain  as  bread, 
And  Honour  is  as  hard  as  stone. 

Go  humbly;  humble  are  the  skies, 

And  low  and  large  and  fierce  the  Star; 

So  very  near  the  Manger  lies 
That  we  may  travel  far. 

Hark !    Laughter  like  a  lion  wakes 
To  roar  to  the  resounding  plain, 

And  the  whole  heaven  shouts  and  shakes, 
For  God  Himself  is  born  again, 

And  we  are  little  children  walking 
Through  the  snow  and  rain. 


62 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CHRISTMAS 

THERE  fared  a  mother  driven  forth 
Out  of  an  inn  to  roam ; 
In  the  place  where  she  was  homeless 
All  men  are  at  home. 
The  crazy  stable  close  at  hand, 
With  shaking  timber  and  shifting  sand, 
Grew  a  stronger  thing  to  abide  and  stand 
Than  the  square  stones  of  Rome. 

For  men  are  homesick  in  their  homes, 

And  strangers  under  the  sun, 

And  they  lay  their  heads  in  a  foreign  land 

Whenever  the  day  is  done. 

Here  we  have  battle  and  blazing  eyes, 

And  chance  and  honour  and  high  surprise, 

But  our  homes  are  under  miraculous  skies 

Where  the  yule  tale  was  begun. 

A  Child  in  a  foul  stable, 

Where  the  beasts  feed  and  foam; 

Only  where  He  was  homeless 

Are  you  and  I  at  home; 

We  have  hands  that  fashion  and  heads  that  know, 

But  our  hearts  we  lost — how  long  ago! 

In  a  place  no  chart  nor  ship  can  show 

Under  the  sky's  dome. 

63 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CHRISTMAS 

This  world  is  wild  as  an  old  wives'  tale, 

And  strange  the  plain  things  are, 

The  earth  is  enough  and  the  air  is  enough 

For  our  wonder  and  our  war  ; 

But  our  rest  is  as  far  as  the  fire-drake  swings 

And  our  peace  is  put  in  impossible  things 

Where  clashed  and  thundered  unthinkable  wings 

Round  an  incredible  star. 

To  an  open  house  in  the  evening 

Home  shall  men  come, 

To  an  older  place  than  Eden 

And  a  taller  town  than  Rome. 

To  the  end  of  the  way  of  the  wandering  star, 

To  the  things  that  cannot  be  and  that  are, 

To  the  place  where  God  was  homeless 

And  all  men  are  at  home. 


A  SONG  OF  GIFTS  TO  GOD 

WHEN  the  first  Christmas  presents  came,  the 
straw  where  Christ  was  rolled 
Smelt  sweeter  than  their  frankincense,  burnt 

brighter  than  their  gold, 

And  a  wise  man  said,  "We  will  not  give;  the  thanks 
would  be  but  cold." 

"Nay,"  said  the  next,  "To  all  new  gifts,  to  this  gift 

or  another, 
Bends  the  high  gratitude  of  God;  even  as  He  now, 

my  brother, 
Who  had  a  Father  for  all  time,  yet  thanks  Him  for 

a  Mother. 

"Yet  scarce  for   Him   this  yellow  stone  or   prickly 

smells  and  sparse, 
Who  holds  the  gold  heart  of  the  sun  that  fed  these 

timber  bars, 
Nor  any  scentless  lily  lives  for  One  that  smells  the 

stars." 

Then  spake  the  third  of  the  Wise  Men;  the  wisest 

of  the  three: 
"We  may   not   with   the   widest   lives  enlarge    His 

liberty, 
Whose  wings  are  wider  than  the  world.     It  is  not 

He,  but  we. 

65 


A  SONG  OF  GIFTS  TO  GOD 

"We  say  not  He  has  more  to  gain,  but  we  have  more 

to  lose. 
Less  gold  shall  go  astray,  we  say,  less  gold,  if  thus 

we  choose, 
Go  to  make  harlots  of  the  Greeks  and  hucksters  of 

the  Jews. 


"Less  clouds  before  colossal  feet  redden  in  the  under- 
light, 

To  the  blind  gods  from  Babylon  less  incense  burn 
to-night, 

To  the  high  beasts  of  Babylon,  whose  mouths  make 
mock  of  right." 


Babe  of  the  thousand  birthdays,  we  that  are  young 

yet   grey, 
White  with  the  centuries,  still  can  find  no  better  thing 

to  say, 
We  that  with  sects  and  whims  and  wars  have  wasted 

Christmas  Day. 


Light  Thou  Thy  censer  to  Thyself,  for  all  our  fires 

are  dim, 
Stamp  Thou  Thine  image  on  our  coin,  for  Caesar's 

face  grows  dim, 
And  a  dumb  devil  of  pride  and  greed  has  taken  hold 

of  him. 
66 


A  SONG  OF   GIFTS   TO   GOD 

We  bring  Thee  back  great  Christendom,  churches  and 

towns  and  towers, 
And  if  our  hands  are  glad,  O  God,  to  cast  them  down 

like  flowers, 
'Tis  not  that  they  enrich  Thine  hands,  but  they  are 

saved  from  ours. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN 

SAID  the  Lord  God,  "Build  a  house, 
Build  it  in  the  gorge  of  death, 
Found  it  in  the  throats  of  hell. 
Where  the  lost  sea  muttereth, 
Fires  and  whirlwinds,  build  it  well." 

Laboured  sternly  flame  and  wind, 

But  a  little,  and  they  cry, 
"Lord,  we  doubt  of  this  Thy  will, 

We  are  blind  and  murmur  why," 
And  the  winds  are  murmuring  still. 

Said  the  Lord  God,  "Build  a  house, 
Cleave  its  treasure  from  the  earth, 

With  the  jarring  powers  of  hell 

Strive  with  formless  might  and  mirth, 

Tribes  and  war-men,  build  it  well." 

Then  the  raw  red  sons  of  men 

Brake  the  soil,  and  lopped  the  wood, 

But  a  little  and  they  shrill, 

"Lord,  we  cannot  view  Thy  good," 

And  the  wild  men  clamour  still. 


THE   KINGDOM   OF  HEAVEN 

Said  the  Lord  God,  "Build  a  house, 
Smoke  and  iron,  spark  and  steam, 

Speak  and  vote  and  buy  and  sell; 
Let  a  new  world  throb  and  stream, 

Seers  and  makers,  build  it  well." 

Strove  the  cunning  men  and  strong, 

But  a  little  and  they  cry, 
"Lord,  mayhap  we  are  but  clay, 

And  we  cannot  know  the  why," 
And  the  wise  men  doubt  to-day. 

Yet  though  worn  and  deaf  and  blind, 
Force  and  savage,  king  and  seer 

Labour  still,  they  know  not  why; 
At  the  dim  foundation  here, 

Knead  and  plough  and  think  and  ply. 

Till  at  last,  mayhap,  hereon, 

Fused  of  passion  and  accord, 
Love  its  crown  and  peace  its  stay 

Rise  the  city  of  the  Lord 
That  we  darkly  build  to-day. 


A  HYMN  FOR  THE  CHURCH 
MILITANT 

GREAT  God,  that  bowest  sky  and  star, 
Bow  down  our  towering  thoughts  to  thee, 
And  grant  us  in  a  faltering  war 
The  firm  feet  of  humility. 

Lord,  we  that  snatch  the  swords  of  flame, 

Lord,  we  that  cry  about  Thy  car, 
We  too  are  weak  with  pride  and  shame, 

We  too  are  as  our  foemen  are. 

Yea,  we  are  mad  as  they  are  mad, 

Yea,  we  are  blind  as  they  are  blind, 
Yea,  we  are  very  sick  and  sad 

Who  bring  good  news  to  all  mankind. 

The  dreadful  joy  Thy  Son  has  sent 

Is  heavier  than  any  care; 
We  find,  as  Cain  his  punishment, 

Our  pardon  more  than  we  can  bear. 

Lord,  when  we  cry  Thee  far  and  near 
And  thunder  through  all  lands  unknown 

The  gospel  into  every  ear, 
Lord,  let  us  not  forget  our  own. 

70 


A   HYMN  FOR    THR   CHURCH  MILITANT 

Cleanse  us  from  ire  of  creed  or  class, 

The  anger  of  the  idle  kings; 
Sow  in  our  souls,  like  living  grass, 

The  laughter  of  all  lowly  things. 


THE  BEATIFIC  VISION 

THEN   Bernard  smiled  at  me,    that   I  should 
gaze 
But  I  had  gazed  already;  caught  the  view, 
Faced  the  unfathomable  ray  of  rays 

Which  to  itself  and  by  itself  is  true. 

Then  was  my  vision  mightier  than  man's  speech; 

Speech  snapt  before  it  like  a  flying  spell ; 
And  memory  and  all  that  time  can  teach 

Before  that  splendid  outrage  failed  and  fell. 

As  when  one  dreameth  and  remembereth  not 

Waking,  what  were  his  pleasures  or  his  pains, 

With  every  feature  of  the  dream  forgot, 

The  printed   passion  of   the   dream  remains: — 

Even  such  am  I;  within  whose  thoughts  resides 
No  picture  of  that  sight  nor  any  part 

Nor  any  memory:  in  whom  abides 

Only  a  happiness  within  the  heart, 

A  secret  happiness  that  soaks  the  heart 

As  hills  are  soaked  by  slow  unsealing  snow, 

Or  secret  as  that  wind  without  a  chart 

Whereon  did  the  wild  leaves  of  Sibyl  go. 

72 


THE  BEATIFIC   VISION 

O  light  uplifted  from  all  mortal  knowing, 

Send  back  a  little  of  that  glimpse  of  thee, 

That  of  its  glory  I  may  kindle  glowing 
One  tiny  spark  for  all  men  yet  to  be. 


73 


THE  TRUCE  OF  CHRISTMAS 

PASSIONATE  peace  is  in  the  sky— 
And  in  the  snow  in  silver  sealed 
The  beasts  are  perfect  in  the  field, 
And  men  seem  men  so  suddenly — 

(But  take  ten  swords  and  ten  times  ten 

And  blow  the  bugle  in  praising  men; 

For  we  are  for  all  men  under  the  sun, 

And  they  are  against  us  every  one; 

And  misers  haggle  and  madmen  clutch, 

And  there  is  peril  in  praising  much, 

And  we  have  the  terrible  tongues  uncurled 

That  praise  the  world  to  the  sons  of  the  world.) 


The  idle  humble  hill  and  wood 

Are  bowed  upon  the  sacred  birth, 

And  for  one  little  hour  the  earth 

Is  lazy  with  the  love  of  good — 

(But  ready  are  you,  and  ready  am  I, 

If  the  battle  blow  and  the  guns  go  by; 

For  we  are  for  all  men  under  the  sun, 

And  they  are  against  us  every  one; 

And  the  men  that  hate  herd  all  together, 

To  pride  and  gold,  and  the  great  white  feather, 

74 


THE   TRUCE  OF   CHRISTMAS 

And  the  thing  is  graven  in  star  and  stone 
That  the  men  who  love  are  all  alone.) 

Hunger  is  hard  and  time  is  tough, 
But  bless  the  beggars  and  kiss  the  kings, 
For  hope  has  broken  the  heart  of  things, 
And  nothing  was  ever  praised  enough. 

(But  hold  the  shield  for  a  sudden  swing 

And   point  the  sword  when   you   praise   a  thing, 

For  we  are  for  all  men  under  the  sun, 

And  they  are  against  us  every  one; 

And  mime  and  merchant,  thane  and  thrall 

Hate  us  because  we  love  them  all; 

Only  till  Christmastide  go  by 

Passionate  peace  is  in  the  sky.) 


75 


A  HYMN 

OGOD  of  earth  and  altar, 
Bow  down  and  hear  our  cry, 
Our  earthly  rulers  falter, 
Our  people  drift  and  die; 
The  walls  of  gold  entomb  us, 

The  swords  of  scorn  divide, 
Take  not  thy  thunder  from  us, 
But  take  away  our  pride. 

From  all  that  terror  teaches, 

From  lies  of  tongue  and  pen, 
From  all  the  easy  speeches 

That  comfort  cruel  men, 
From  sale  and  profanation 

Of  honour  and  the  sword, 
From  sleep  and  from  damnation, 

Deliver  us,  good  Lord! 

Tie  in  a  living  tether 

The  prince  and  priest  and  thrall, 
Bind  all  our  lives  together, 

Smite  us  and  save  us  all ; 
In  ire  and  exultation 

Aflame  with  faith,  and  free, 
Lift  up  a  living  nation, 

A  single  sword  to  thee. 
76 


A  CHRISTMAS  SONG  FOR  THREE  GUILDS 

TO  BE  SUNG  A  LONG  TIME  AGO — OR  HENCE 

THE  CARPENTERS 

ST.  JOSEPH  to  the  Carpenters  said  on  a  Christ- 
mas Day: 
"The  master  shall  have  patience  and  the  'pren- 
tice shall  obey; 
And  your  word  unto  your  women  shall  be  nowise 

hard  or  wild: 

For  the  sake  of  me,   your  master,  who  have  wor- 
shipped Wife  and  Child. 
But  softly  you  shall  frame  the  fence,  and  softly  carve 

the  door, 
And  softly  plane  the  table — as  to  spread  it  for  the 

poor, 
And  all  your  thoughts  be  soft  and  white  as  the  wood 

of  the  white  tree. 
But  if  they  tear  the  Charter,  let  the  tocsin  speak  for 

me! 
Let  the  wooden  sign  above  your  shop  be  prouder  to 

be  scarred 
Than  the  lion-shield  of  Lancelot  that  hung  at  Joyous 

Garde." 

77 


CHRISTMAS  SONG   FOR    THREE   GUILDS 


THE  SHOEMAKERS 

St.  Crispin  to  the  shoemakers  said  on  a  Christmas- 
tide: 
"Who  fashions  at  another's  feet  will  get  no  good  of 

pride. 
They  were  bleeding  on  the  Mountain,  the  feet  that 

brought  good  news, 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  we  were  not  worthy  to 

unloose. 
See  that  your  feet  offend  not,  nor  lightly  lift  your 

head, 
Tread  softly  on  the  sunlit  roads  the  bright  dust  of 

the  dead. 
Let  your  own  feet  be  shod  with  peace;  be  lowly  all 

your  lives. 
But  if  they  touch  the  Charter,  ye  shall  nail  it  with 

your  knives. 
And  the  bill-blades  of  the  commons  drive  in  all  as 

dense  array 
As  once  a  crash  of  arrows  came,  upon  St.  Crispin's 

Day." 

THE  PAINTERS 

St.  Luke  unto  the  painters  on  Christmas  Day  he  said : 
"See  that  the  robes  are  white  you  dare  to  dip  in 

gold  and  red; 
For  only  gold  the  kings  can  give,   and  only  blood 

the  saints; 
78 


CHRISTMAS  SONG  FOR    THREE   GUILDS 

And  his  high  task  grows  perilous  that  mixes  them 

in  paints. 
Keep  you  the  ancient  order;   follow   the   men   that 

knew 
The  labyrinth  of  black  and  white,  the  maze  of  green 

and  blue; 
Paint  mighty  things,  paint  paltry  things,  paint  silly 

things  or  sweet. 
But  if  men  break  the  Charter,  you  may  slay  them 

in  the  street. 
And  if  you  paint  one  post  for  them,  then  .  .  .  but 

you  know  it  well, 
You  paint  a  harlot's  face  to  drag  all  heroes  down  to 

hell." 

ALL  TOGETHER 

Almighty   God   to   all   mankind   on   Christmas   Day 

said  He: 
"I  rent  you  from  the  old  red  hills  and,  rending, 

made  you  free. 
There  was  charter,  there  was  challenge;  in  a  blast  of 

breath  I  gave; 

You  can  be  all  things  other;  you  cannot  be  a  slave. 
You  shall  be  tired  and  tolerant  of  fancies  as  they  fade, 
But  if  men  doubt  the  Charter,  ye  shall  call  on  the 

Crusade — 
Trumpet  and   torch   and  catapult,   cannon   and   bow 

and  blade, 
Because   it  was   My   challenge   to   all   the   things    I 

made." 

79 


THE  NATIVITY 

THE  thatch  on  the  roof  was  as  golden, 
Though  dusty  the  straw  was  and  old, 
The  wind  had  a  peal  as  of  trumpets, 
Though  blowing  and  barren  and  cold, 
The  mother's  hair  was  a  glory 

Though  loosened   and  torn, 
For  under  the  eaves  in  the  gloaming 
A  child  was  born. 


Have  a  myriad  children  been  quickened, 
Have  a  myriad  children  grown  old, 

Grown  gross  and  unloved  and  embittered, 
Grown  cunning  and  savage  and  cold? 

God  abides  in  a  terrible  patience, 
Unangered,  unworn, 

And  again  for  the  child  that  was  squandered 
A  child  is  born. 


What  know  we  of  aeons  behind  us, 

Dim  dynasties  lost  long  ago, 
Huge  empires,  like  dreams  unremembered, 

Huge  cities  for  ages  laid  low? 
80 


THE  NATIVITY 

This  at  least — that  with  blight  and  with  blessing, 

With  flower  and  with  thorn, 
Love  was  there,  and  his  cry  was  among  them, 
"A  child  is  born." 


Though  the  darkness  be  noisy  with  systems, 
Dark  fancies  that  fret  and  disprove, 

Still  the  plumes  stir  around  us,  above  us 
The  wings  of  the  shadow  of  love: 

Oh!  princes  and  priests,  have  ye  seen  it 
Grow  pale  through  your  scorn. 

Huge  dawns  sleep  before  us,  deep  changes, 
A  child  is  born. 


And  the  rafters  of  toil  still  are  gilded 
With  the  dawn  of  the  star  of  the  heart, 

And  the  wise  men  draw  near  in  the  twilight, 
Who  are  weary  of  learning  and  art, 

And  the  face  of  the  tyrant  is  darkened, 
His  spirit  is  torn, 

For   a   new   King   is   enthroned;   yea,    the   sternest, 
A  child  is  born. 


And  the  mother  still  joys  for  the  whispered 

First  stir  of  unspeakable  things, 
Still  feels  that  high  moment  unfurling 

Red  glory  of  Gabriel's  wings. 

81 


THE  NATIVITY 

Still  the  babe  of  an  hour  is  a  master 

Whom  angels  adorn, 
Emmanuel,  prophet,  anointed, 
A  child  is  born. 

And  thou,  that  art  still  in  thy  cradle, 
The  sun  being  crown  for  thy  brow, 

Make  answer,  our  flesh,  make  an  answer, 
Say,  whence  art  thou  come — who  art  thou? 

Art  thou  come  back  on  earth  for  our  teaching 
To  train  or  to  warn — ? 

Hush — how  may  we  know? — knowing  only 
A  child  is  born. 


82 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SNOWS 

THERE  is  heard  a  hymn  when    the  panes  are 
dim, 
And  never  before  or  again, 

When  the  nights  are  strong  with  a  darkness  long, 
And  the  dark  is  alive  with  rain. 

Never  we  know  but  in  sleet  and  in  snow, 

The  place  where  the  great  fires  are, 
That  the  midst  of  the  earth  is  a  raging  mirth 

And  the  heart  of  the  earth  a  star. 

And  at  night  we  win  to  the  ancient  inn 
Where  the  child  in  the  frost  is  furled, 

We  follow  the  feet  where  all  souls  meet 
At  the  inn  at  the  end  of  the  world. 

The  gods  lie  dead  where  the  leaves  lie  red, 

For  the  flame  of  the  sun  is  flown, 
The  gods  lie  cold  where  the  leaves  lie  gold, 

And  a  Child  comes  forth  alone. 


A  WORD 

A  WORD  came  forth  in  Galilee,  a  word  like 
to  a  star; 
It  climbed   and   rang  and  blessed  and  burnt 

wherever  brave  hearts  are; 

A  word  of  sudden  secret  hope,  of  trial  and  increase 
Of  wrath  and  pity  fused  in  fire,  and  passion  kissing 

peace. 
A  star  that  o'er  the  citied  world  beckoned,  a  sword 

of  flame; 

A  star  with  myriad  thunders  tongued :  a  mighty  word 
there  came. 

The  wedge's  dart  passed  into  it,  the  groan  of  timber- 
wains, 

The  ringing  of  the  rivet  nails,  the  shrieking  of  the 
planes ; 

The  hammering  on  the  roofs  at  morn,  the  busy  work- 
shop roar; 

The  hiss  of  shavings  drifted  deep  along  the  windy 
floor ; 

The  heat-browned  toiler's  crooning  song,  the  hum  of 
human  worth — 

Mingled  of  all  the  noise  of  crafts,  the  ringing  word 
went  forth, 

84 


A    WORD 

The  splash  of  nets  passed  into  it,  the  grind  of  sand 
and  shell, 

The  boat-hook's  clash,  the  boat-oars'  jar,  the  cries  to 
buy  and  sell, 

The  flapping  of  the  landed  shoals,  the  canvas  crack- 
ling free, 

And  through  all  varied  notes  and  cries,  the  roaring 
of  the  sea, 

The  noise  of  little  lives  and  brave,  of  needy  lives 
and  high; 

In  gathering  all  the  throes  of  earth,  the  living  word 
went  by. 


Earth's  giant  sins  bowed  down  to  it,  in  Empire's 
huge  eclipse, 

When  darkness  sat  above  the  thrones,  seven  thunders 
on  her  lips, 

The  woe  of  cities  entered  it,  the  clang  of  idols'  falls, 

The  scream  of  filthy  Caesars  stabbed  high  in  their 
brazen  halls, 

The  dim  hoarse  floods  of  naked  men,  the  world- 
realms  snapping  girth, 

The  trumpets  of  Apocalypse,  the  darkness  of  the  earth : 


The  wrath  that  brake  the  eternal  lamp  and  hid  the 

eternal  hill, 
A  world's  destruction  loading,  the  word  went  onward 

still— 

85 


A    WORD 

The  blaze  of  creeds  passed  into  it,  the  hiss  of  horrid 

fires, 
The  headlong  spear,  the  scarlet  cross,  the  hair-shirt 

and  the  briars, 
The  cloistered  brethren's  thunderous  chaunt,  the  errant 

champion's  song, 
The  shifting  of  the  crowns  and  thrones,  the  tangle 

of  the  strong. 

The  shattering  fall  of  crest  and  crown  and  shield 

and  cross  and  cope, 
The    tearing   of    the    gauds   of    time,    the   blight   of 

prince  and  pope, 
The  reign  of  ragged  millions  leagued  to  wrench  a 

loaded  debt, 
Loud  with  the  many  throated  roar,  the  word  went 

forward  yet. 
The  song  of  wheels  passed  into  it,  the  roaring  and 

the  smoke 
The  riddle  of  the  want  and  wage,  the  fogs  that  burn 

and  choke. 
The  breaking  of  the  girths  of  gold,  the  needs  that 

creep  and  swell, 

The  strengthening  hope,  the  dazing  light,  the  deafen- 
ing evangel, 
Through  kingdoms  dead  and  empires  damned,  through 

changes  without  cease, 
With  earthquake,  chaos,  born  and  fed,  rose, — and  the 

word  was  "Peace." 


86 


ANTICHRIST,   OR  THE   REUNION   OF 
CHRISTENDOM:  AN  ODE 

"A    BILL   WHICH    HAS   SHOCKED   THE   CONSCIENCE   OF 
EVERY    CHRISTIAN     COMMUNITY     IN     EUROPE." Mr. 

F.  E.  Smith,  ON  THE  WELSH  DISESTABLISHMENT  BILL. 

ARE  they  clinging  to  their  crosses, 
F.  E.  Smith, 
Where  the  Breton  boat-fleet  tosses, 

Are  they,  Smith? 
Do  they,  fasting,  tramping,  bleeding, 

Wait  the  news  from  this  our  city? 
Groaning  "That's  the  Second  Reading!" 
Hissing  "There  is  still  Committee!" 
If  the  voice  of  Cecil  falters, 

If  McKenna's  point  has  pith, 
Do  they  tremble  for  their  altars? 
Do  they,  Smith  ? 

Russian  peasants  round  their  pope 

Huddled,  Smith, 
Hear  about  it  all,  I  hope, 

Don't  they,  Smith? 
In  the  mountain  hamlets  clothing 
Peaks  beyond  Caucasian  pales, 

89 


ANTICHRIST,   OR    THE   REUNION 

Where  Establishment  means  nothing 
And  they  never  heard  of  Wales, 

Do  they  read  it  all  in  Hansard 
With  a  crib  to  read  it  with — 

"Welsh  Tithes:  Dr.  Clifford  Answered." 
Really,  Smith? 


In  the  lands  where  Christians  were, 

F.  E.  Smith, 
In  the  little  lands  laid  bare, 

Smith,  O  Smith! 

Where  the  Turkish  bands  are  busy, 
And  the  Tory  name  is  blessed 
Since  they  hailed  the  Cross  of  Dizzy 
On  the  banners  from  the  West! 
Men  don't  think  it  half  so  hard  if 

Islam  burns  their  kin  and  kith, 
Since  a  curate  lives  in  Cardiff 

Saved  by  Smith. 


It  would  greatly,  I  must  own, 

Soothe  me,  Smith, 
If  you  left  this  theme  alone, 

Holy  Smith! 
For  your  legal  cause  or  civil 

You  fight  well  and  get  your  fee; 
For  your  God  or  dream  or  devil 

You  will  answer,  not  to  me. 
90 


OF   CHRISTENDOM:  AN   ODE 

Talk  about  the  pews  and  steeples 

And  the  Cash  that  goes  therewith! 
But  the  souls  of  Christian  peoples.  .  .  . 
—Chuck  it,  Smith! 


THE  REVOLUTIONIST:  OR  LINES  TO  A 
STATESMAN 

"l    WAS    NEVER    STANDING    BY   WHILE    A    REVOLUTION 

WAS  GOING  ON." — Speech  by  the  Rt.   Hon.   Walter 
Long. 

WHEN    Death   was    on   thy   drums,    Demo- 
cracy, 
And  with  one  rush  of  slaves  the  world  was 

free, 

In  that  high  dawn  that  Kings  shall  not  forget, 
A  void  there  was  and  Walter  was  not  yet. 
Through  sacked  Versailles,  at  Valmy  in  the  fray, 
They  did  without  him  in  some  kind  of  way ; 
Red  Christendom  all  Walterless  they  cross, 
And  in  their  fury  hardly  feel  their  loss  .  .  . 
Fades  the  Republic;  faint  as  Roland's  horn, 
Her  trumpets  taunt  us  with  a  sacred  scorn  .  .  , 
Then  silence  fell;  and  Mr.  Long  was  born. 

From  his  first  hours  in  his  expensive  cot 
He  never  saw  the  tiniest  viscount  shot. 
In  deference  to  his  wealthy  parents'  whim 
The  wildest  massacres  were  kept  from  him. 
92 


THE   REVOLUTIONIST 

The  wars  that  dyed   Pall  Mall  and  Brompton  red 
Passed  harmless  o'er  that  one  unconscious  head: 
For  all  that  little  Long  could  understand 
The  rich  might  still  be  rulers  of  the  land. 
Vain  are  the  pious  arts  of  parenthood, 
Foiled  Revolution  bubbled  in  his  blood; 
Until  one  day  (the  babe  unborn  shall  rue  it) 
The  Constitution  bored  him  and  he  slew  it. 


If  I  were  wise  and  good  and  rich  and  strong — 
Fond,  impious  thought,  if  I  were  Walter  Long — 
If  I  could  water  sell  like  molten  gold, 
And  make  grown  people  do  as  they  are  told, 
If  over  private  fields  and  wastes  as  wide 
As  a  Greek  city  for  which  heroes  died, 
I  owned  the  houses  and  the  men  inside — 
If  all  this  hung  on  one  thin  thread  of  habit 
I  would  not  revolutionize  a  rabbit. 

I  would  sit  tight  with  all  my  gifts  and  glories, 
And  even  preach  to  unconverted  Tories, 
That  the  fixed  system  that  our  land  inherits, 
Viewed  from  a  certain  standpoint,  has  its  merits. 
I'd  guard  the  laws  like  any  Radical, 
And  keep  each  precedent,  however  small, 
However  subtle,  misty,  dusty,  dreamy, 
Lest  man  by  chance  should  look  at  me  and  see  me; 
Lest  men  should   ask  what  madman   made  me  lord 
Of  English  ploughshares  and  the  English  sword; 

93 


THE   REVOLUTIONIST 

Lest  men  should  mark  how  sleepy  is  the  nod 
That  drills  the  dreadful  images  of  God! 

Walter,  be  wise!  avoid  the  wild  and  new, 
The  Constitution  is  the  game  for  you. 
Walter,  beware!  scorn  not  the  gathering  throng, 
It  suffers,  yet  it  may  not  suffer  wrong, 
It  suffers,  yet  it  cannot  suffer  Long. 
And  if  you  goad  it  these  grey  rules  to  break, 
For  a  few  pence,  see  that  you  do  not  wake 
Death  and  the  splendour  of  the  scarlet  cap, 
Boston  and  Valmy,  Yorktown  and  Jemmappes, 
Freedom  in  arms,  the  riding  and  the  routing, 
The  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting, 
All  that  lost  riot  that  you  did  not  share — 
And  when  that  riot  comes — you  will  be  there. 


94 


THE  SHAKESPEARE  MEMORIAL 

LORD  Lilac  thought  it  rather  rotten 
That  Shakespeare  should  be  quite  forgotten, 
And  therefore  got  on  a  Committee 
With  several  chaps  out  of  the  city, 
And  Shorter  and  Sir  Herbert  Tree, 
Lord  Rothschild  and  Lord  Rosebery 
And  F.C.G.  and  Comyns  Carr, 
Two  dukes  and  a  dramatic  star, 
Also  a  clergyman  now  dead; 
And  while  the  vain  world  careless  sped 
Unheeding  the  heroic  name — 
The  souls  most  fed  with  Shakespeare's  flame 
Still  sat  unconquered  in  a  ring, 
Remembering  him  like  anything. 

Lord  Lilac  did  not  long  remain, 
Lord  Lilac  did  not  come  again. 
He  softly  lit  a  cigarette 
And  sought  some  other  social  set 
Where,  in  some  other  knots  or  rings, 
People  were  doing  cultured  things, 
— Miss  Zwilt's  Humane  Vivarium 
— The  little  men  that  paint  on  gum 

95 


THE   SHAKESPEARE  MEMORIAL 

— The  exquisite  Gorilla  Girl.  .  .  . 
He  sometimes,  in  this  giddy  whirl 
(Not  being  really  bad  at  heart), 
Remembered  Shakespeare  with  a  start — 
But  not  with  that  grand  constancy 
Of  Clement  Shorter,  Herbert  Tree, 
Lord  Rosebery  and  Comyns  Carr 
And  all  the  other  names  there  are; 
Who  stuck  like  limpets  to  the  spot, 
Lest  they  forgot,  lest  they  forgot. 

Lord  Lilac  was  of  slighter  stuff; 
Lord  Lilac  had  had  quite  enough. 


THE  HORRIBLE  HISTORY  OF  JONES 

JONES  had  a  dog;  it  had  a  chain; 
Not  often  worn,  not  causing  pain ; 
But,  as  the  I.K.L.  had  passed 
Their  "Unleashed  Cousins  Act"  at  last, 
Inspectors  took  the  chain  away; 
Whereat  the  canine  barked  "hurray"! 
At  which,  of  course,  the  S.P.U. 
(Whose  Nervous  Motorists'  Bill  was  through), 
Were  forced  to  give  the  dog  in  charge 
For  being  Audibly  at  Large. 
None,  you  will  say,  were  now  annoyed, 
Save  haply  Jones — the  yard  was  void. 
But  something  being  in  the  lease 
About  "alarms  to  aid  police," 
The  U.S.U.  annexed  the  yard 
For  having  no  sufficient  guard; 
Now  if  there's  one  condition 
The  C.C.P.  are  strong  upon 
It  is  that  every  house  one  buys 
Must  have  a  yard  for  exercise; 
So  Jones,  as  tenant,  was  unfit, 
His  state  of  health  was  proof  of  it. 
Two  doctors  of  the  T.T.U.'s 

97 


THE   HORRIBLE  HISTORY   OF  JONES 

Told  him  his  legs  from  long  disuse, 
Were  atrophied;  and  saying  "So 
From  step  to  higher  step  we  go 
Till  everything  is  New  and  True," 
They  cut  his  legs  off  and  withdrew. 
You  know  the  E.T.S.T.'s  views 
Are  stronger  than  the  T.T.U.'s: 
And  soon   (as  one  may  say)  took  wing 
The  Arms,  though  not  the  Man,  I  sing. 
To  see  him  sitting  limbless  there 
Was  more  than  the  K.K.  could  bear 
"In  mercy  silence  with  all  speed 
That  mouth  there  are  no  hands  to  feed ; 
What  cruel  sentimentalist, 
O  Jones,  would  doom  thee  to  exist — 
Clinging  to  selfish  Selfhood  yet  ? 
Weak  one!  Such  reasoning  might  upset 
The  Pump  Act,  and  the  accumulation 
Of  all  constructive  legislation; 
Let  us  construct  you  up  a  bit — " 
The  head  fell  off  when  it  was  hit: 
Then  words  did  rise  and  honest  doubt, 
And  four  Commissions  sat  about 
Whether  the  slash  that  left  him  dead 
Cut  off  his  body  or  his  head. 

An  author  in  the  Isle  of  Wight 
Observed  with  unconcealed  delight 
98 


THE   HORRIBLE   HISTORY   OF  JONES 

A  land  of  old  and  just  renown 

Where  Freedom  slowly  broadened  down 

From  Precedent  to  Precedent  .  .  . 

And  this,  I   think,  was  what  he  meant. 


99 


THE  NEW  FREETHINKER 

JOHN  Grubby,  who  was  short  and  stout 
And  troubled  with  religious  doubt, 
Refused  about  the  age  of  three 
To  sit  upon  the  curate's  knee ; 
(For  so  the  eternal  strife  must  rage 
Between  the  spirit  of  the  age 
And  Dogma,  which,  as  is  well  known, 
Does  simply  hate  to  be  outgrown). 
Grubby,  the  young  idea  that  shoots, 
Outgrew  the  ages  like  old  boots; 
While  still,  to  all  appearance,  small, 
Would  have  no  Miracles  at  all; 
And  just  before  the  age  of  ten 
Firmly  refused  Free  Will  to  men. 
The  altars  reeled,  the  heavens  shook, 
Just  as  he  read  of  in  the  book; 
Flung  from  his  house  went  forth  the  youth 
Alone  with  tempests  and  the  Truth, 
Up  to  the  distant  city  and  dim 
Where  his  papa  had  bought  for  him 
A  partnership  in  Chepe  and  Deer 
Worth,  say,  twelve  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
But  he  was  resolute.     Lord  Brute 
Had  found  him  useful;  and  Lord  Loot, 
With  whom  few  other  men  would  act, 
Valued  his  promptitude  and  tact; 
100 


THE   NEW  FREETHINKER 

Never  did  even  philanthropy 
Enrich  a  man  more  rapidly: 
Twas  he  that  stopped  the  Strike  in  Coal, 
For  hungry  children  racked  his  soul; 
To  end  their  misery  there  and  then 
He  filled  the  mines  with  Chinamen — 
Sat  in  that  House  that  broke  the  Kings, 
And  voted  for  all  sorts  of  things — 
And  rose  from  Under-Sec,  to  Sec. 
With  scarce  a  murmur  or  a  check. 
Some  grumbled.     Growlers  who  gave  less 
Than  generous  worship  to  success, 
The  little  printers  in  Dundee 
Who  got  ten  years  for  blasphemy, 
(Although  he  let  them  off  with  seven) 
Respect  him  rather  less  than  heaven. 
No  matter.    This  can  still  be  said: 
Never  to  supernatural  dread, 
Never  to  unseen  deity, 
Did  Sir  John  Grubby  bend  the  knee; 
Never  did  dream  of  hell  or  wrath 
Turn  Viscount  Grubby  from  his  path; 
Nor  was  he  bribed   by   fabled   bliss 
To  kneel  to  any  world  but  this. 
The  curate  lives  in  Camden  Town, 
His  lap  still  empty  of  renown, 
And  still  across  the  waste  of  years 
John  Grubby,  in  the  House  of  Peers, 
Faces  that  curate,  proud  and  free, 
And  never  sits  upon  his  knee. 

101 


IN  MEMORIAM  P.  D. 

NICE,  JANUARY  30,   1914. 

IF  any  in  an  island  cradle  curled 
Of  comfort,  may  make  offerings  to  you, 
Who  in  the  day  of  all  denial  blew 
A  bugle  through  the  blackness  of  the  world, 

An  English  hand  would  touch  your  shroud,  in  trust 
That  truth  again  be  told  in  English  speech, 
And  we  too  yet  may  practise  what  we  preach, 
Though  it  were  practising  the  bayonet  thrust. 

Cutting  that  giant  neck  from  sand  to  sand, 
From  sea  to  sea;  it  was  a  little  thing 
Beside  your  sudden  shout  and  sabre-swing 
That  cut  the  throat  of  thieves  in  every  land. 

Heed  not  if  half-wits  mock  your  broken  blade: 
Mammon  our  master  doeth  all  things  ill. 
You  are  the  Fool  that  charged  a  windmill.     Still, 
The  Miller  is  a  Knave;  and  was  afraid. 

Lay  down  your  sword.     Ruin  will  know  her  own. 

Let  each  small  statesman  sow  his  weak  wild  oat, 

Or  turn  his  coat  to  decorate  his  coat, 

Or  take  the  throne  and  perish  by  the  throne. 

1 02 


MEMORIAM  P.   D. 


Lay  down  your  sword.    And  let  the  White  Flag  fade 
To  grey;  and  let  the  Red  Flag  fade  to  pink, 
For  these  that  climb  and  climb;  and  cannot  sink 
So  deep  as  death  and  honour,  Deroulede. 


103 


SONNET  WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS  OF 
THE  SEASON 

TO  A  POPULAR  LEADER  MUCH  TO  BE  CONGRATULATED 
ON  THE  AVOIDANCE  OF  A  STRIKE  AT  CHRISTMAS 

1KNOW  you.     You  will  hail  the  huge  release, 
Saying  the  sheathing  of  a  thousand  swords, 
In  silence  and  injustice,  well  accords 
With  Christmas  bells.    And  you  will  gild  with  grease 
The  papers,  the  employers,  the  police, 
And  vomit  up  the  void  your  windy  words 
To  your  New  Christ;  who  bears  no  whip  of  cords 
For  them  that  traffic  in  the  doves  of  peace. 

The  feast  of  friends,  the  candle-fruited  tree, 
I  have  not  failed  to  honour.    And  I  say 
It  would  be  better  for  such  men  as  we, 
And  we  be  nearer  Bethlehem,  if  we  lay 
Shot  dead  on  scarlet  snows  for  liberty, 
Dead  in  the  daylight  upon  Christmas  Day. 


104 


A  SONG  OF  SWORDS 

"A  DROVE   OF   CATTLE  CAME   INTO   A   VILLAGE   CALLED 
SWORDS,  AND  WAS  STOPPED  BY  THE  RIOTERS." — Daily 

Paper. 

IN  the  place  called  Swords  on  the  Irish  road 
It  is  told  for  a  new  renown 
How  we  held  the  horns  of  the  cattle,  and  how 
We  will  hold  the  horns  of  the  devil  now 
Ere  the  lord  of  hell,  with  the  horn  on  his  brow, 
Is  crowned  in  Dublin  town. 

Light  in  the  East  and  light  in  the  West, 
And  light  on  the  cruel  lords, 
On  the  souls  that  suddenly  all  men  knew, 
And  the  green  flag  flew  and  the  red  flag  flew, 
And  many  a  wheel  of  the  world  stopped,  too, 
When  the  cattle  were  stopped  at  Swords. 

Be  they  sinners  or  less  than  saints 
That  smite  in  the  street  for  rage, 
We  know  where  the  shame  shines  bright;  we  know 
You  that  they  smite  at,  you  their  foe, 
Lords  of  the  lawless  wage  and  low, 
This  is  your  lawful  wage. 

105 


A   SONG   OF  SWORDS 

You  pinched  a  child  to  a  torture  price 
That  you  dared  not  name  in  words; 
So  black  a  jest  was  the  silver  bit 
That  your  own  speech  shook  for  the  shame  of  it, 
And  the  coward  was  plain  as  a  cow  they  hit 
When  the  cattle  have  strayed  at  Swords. 


The  wheel  of  the  torment  of  wives  went  round 
To  break  men's  brotherhood; 
You  gave  the  good  Irish  blood  to  grease 
The  clubs  of  your  country's  enemies; 
You  saw  the  brave  man  beat  to  the  knees: 
And  you  saw  that  it  was  good. 


The  rope  of  the  rich  is  long  and  long — 
The  longest  of  hangmen's  cords; 
But  the  kings  and  crowds  are  holding  their  bream, 
In  a  giant  shadow  o'er  all  beneath 
Where  God  stands  holding  the  scales  of  Death 
Between  the  cattle  and  Swords. 


Haply  the  lords  that  hire  and  lend, 
The  lowest  of  all  men's  lords, 
Who  sell  their  kind  like  kine  at  a  fair, 
Will  find  no  head  of  their  cattle  there; 
But  faces  of  men  where  cattle  were: 

Faces  of  men — and  Swords. 
106 


A   SONG   OF   SWORDS 

And  the  name  shining  and  terrible, 
The  sternest  of  all  man's  words, 
Still  mark  that  place  to  seek  or  shun, 
In  the  streets  where  the  struggling  cattle  run- 
Grass  and  a  silence  of  judgment  done 
In  the  place  that  is  called  Swords. 


107 


A  SONG  OF  DEFEAT 

THE  line  breaks  and  the  guns  go  under, 
The  lords  and  the  lackeys  ride  the  plain; 
I  draw  deep  breaths  of  the  dawn  and  thunder, 
And  the  whole  of  my  heart  grows  young  again. 
For  our  Chiefs  said  "Done,"  and  I  did  not  deem  it; 

Our  Seers  said  "Peace,"  and  it  was  not  peace; 
Earth  will  grow  worse  till  men  redeem  it, 
And  wars  more  evil,  ere  all  wars  cease. 
But  the  old  flags  reel  and  the  old  drums  rattle, 
As  once  in  my  life  they  throbbed  and  reeled; 
I  have  found  my  youth  in  the  lost  battle, 
I   have   found   my  heart  on   the  battlefield. 
For  we  that  fight  till  the  world  is  free, 
We  are  not  easy  in  victory: 
We  have  known  each  other  too  long,  my  brother, 
And  fought  each  other,  the  world  and  we. 

And  I  dream  of  the  days  when  work  was  scrappy, 

And  rare  in  our  pockets  the  mark  of  the  mint, 
When  we  were  angry  and  poor  and  happy, 

And  proud  of  seeing  our  names  in  print. 
For  so  they  conquered  and  so  we  scattered, 

When  the  Devil  rode  and  his  dogs  smelt  gold, 
And  the  peace  of  a  harmless  folk  was  shattered; 

When  I  was  twenty  and  odd  years  old. 
108 


A  SONG  OF  DEFEAT 

When  the  mongrel  men  that  the  market  classes 

Had  slimy  hands  upon  England's  rod, 
And  sword  in  hand  upon  Afric's  passes 
Her  last  Republic  cried  to  God. 
For  the  men  no  lords  can  buy  or  sell, 
They  sit  not  easy  when  all  goes  well, 
They  have  said  to  each  other  what  naught  can 

smother, 
They  have  seen  each  other,  our  souls  and  hell. 

It  is  all  as  of  old;  the  empty  clangour, 

The  Nothing  scrawled  on  a  five-foot  page, 
The  huckster  who,  mocking  holy  anger, 

Painfully  paints  his  face  with  rage. 
And  the  faith  of  the  poor  is  faint  and  partial, 

And  the  pride  of  the  rich  is  all  for  sale, 
And  the  chosen  heralds  of  England's  Marshal 
Are  the  sandwich-men  of  the  "Daily  Mail." 
And  the  niggards  that  dare  not  give  are  glutted, 
And  the  feeble  that  dare  not  fail  are  strong, 
So  while  the  City  of  Toil  is  gutted, 
I  sit  in  the  saddle  and  sing  my  song. 
For  we  that  fight  till  the  world  is  free, 
We  have  no  comfort  in  victory; 
We  have  read  each  other  as  Cain  his  brother, 
We  know  each  other,  these  slaves  and  we. 


109 


SONNET 

ON    HEARING   A    LANDLORD    ACCUSED    (FALSELY,    FOR 

ALL  THE  BARD  CAN  SAY)   OF  NEGLECTING  ONE  OF  THE 

NUMEROUS  WHITE  HORSES  THAT  WERE  OR  WERE  NOT 

CONNECTED   WITH    ALFRED   THE    GREAT 

IF  you  have  picked  your  lawn  of  leaves  and  snails, 
If  you  have  told  your  valet,  even  with  oaths, 
Once  a  week  or  so,  to  brush  your  clothes, 
If  you  have  dared  to  clean  your  teeth,  or  nails, 
While  the  Horse  upon  the  holy  mountain  fails — 
Then  God  that  Alfred  to  his  earth  betrothes 
Send  on  you  screaming  all  that  honour  loathes, 
Horsewhipping,  Hounsditch,  debts,  and  Daily  Mails. 

Can  you  not  even  conserve?     For  if  indeed 

The  White  Horse  fades;  then  closer  creeps  the  fight 

When  we  shall  scour  the  face  of  England  white, 

Plucking  such  men  as  you  up  like  a  weed, 

And  fling  them  far  beyond  a  shaft  shot  right 

When  Wessex  went  to  battle  for  the  creed. 


no 


AFRICA 

A5LEEPY  people,  without  priests  or  kings, 
Dreamed  here,  men  say,  to  drive  us  to  the  sea: 
O  let  us  drive  ourselves!     For  it  is  free 
And  smells  of  honour  and  of  English  things. 
How  came  we  brawling  by  these  bitter  springs, 
We  of  the  North? — two  kindly  nations — we? 
Though  the  dice  rattles  and  the  clear  coin  rings, 

Here  is  no  place  for  living  men  to  be. 
Leave  them  the  gold  that  worked  and  whined  for  it, 
Let  them  that  have  no  nation  anywhere 

Be  native  here,  and  fat  and  full  of  bread; 
But  we,  whose  sins  were  human,  we  will  quit 

The  land  of  blood,  and  leave  these  vultures  there, 
Noiselessly  happy,  feeding  on  the  dead. 


Ill 


THE  DEAD  HERO 

WE  never  saw  you,  like  our  sires, 
For  whom  your  face  was  Freedom's  face, 
Nor  know  what  office-tapes  and  wires 
With  such  strong  cords  may  interlace; 
We  know  not  if  the  statesmen  then 

Were  fashioned  as  the  sort  we  see, 
We  know  that  not  under  your  ken 
Did  England  laugh  at  Liberty. 

Yea,  this  one  thing  is  known  of  you, 

We  know  that  not  till  you  were  dumb, 
Not  till  your  course  was  thundered  through, 

Did  Mammon  see  his  kingdom  come. 
The  songs  of  theft,  the  swords  of  hire, 

The  clerks  that  raved,  the  troops  that  ran 
The  empire  of  the  world's  desire, 

The  dance  of  all  the  dirt  began. 

The  happy  jewelled  alien  men 

Worked  then  but  as  a  little  leaven; 
From  some  more  modest  palace  then 

The  Soul  of  Dives  stank  to  Heaven. 
But  when  they  planned  with  lisp  and  leer 

Their  careful  war  upon  the  weak, 
They  smote  your  body  on  its  bier, 

For  surety  that  you  could  not  speak. 
112 


THE  DEAD   HERO 

A  hero  in  the  desert  died; 

Men  cried  that  saints  should  bury  him, 
And  round  the  grave  should  guard  and  ride, 

A  chivalry  of  Cherubim. 
God  said:  "There  is  a  better  place, 

A  nobler  trophy  and  more  tall; 
The  beasts  that  fled  before  his  face 

Shall  come  to  make  his  funeral. 

"The  mighty  vermin  of  the  void 

That  hid  them  from  his  bended  bow, 
Shall  crawl   from  caverns  overjoyed, 

Jackal  and  snake  and  carrion  crow. 
And  perched  above  the  vulture's  eggs, 

Reversed  upon  its  hideous  head, 
A  blue-faced  ape  shall  wave  its  legs 

To  tell  the  world  that  he  is  dead." 


AN  ELECTION  ECHO 
1906 

THIS  is  their  trumpet  ripe  and  rounded, 
They  have  burnt  the  wheat  and  gathered  the 
chaff, 
And  we  that  have  fought  them,  we  that  have  watched 

them, 
Have  we  at  least  not  cause  to  laugh? 

Never  so  low  at  least  we  stumbled — 

Dead  we  have  been  but  not  so  dead 

As  these  that  live  on  the  life  they  squandered, 

As  these  that  drink  of  the  blood  they  shed. 

We  never  boasted  the  thing  we  blundered, 
We  never  flaunted  the  thing  that  fails, 
We  never  quailed  from  the  living  laughter, 
To  howl  to  the  dead  who  tell  no  tales. 

'Twas  another  finger  at  least  that  pointed 

Our  wasted  men  or  our  emptied  bags, 

It  was  not  we  that  sounded  the  trumpet 

In  front  of  the  triumph  of  wrecks  and  rags. 

114 


AN  ELECTION  ECHO 

Fear  not  these,  they  have  made  their  bargain, 
They  have  counted  the  cost  of  the  last  of  raids, 
They  have  staked  their  lives  on  the  things  that  live 

not, 
They  have  burnt  their  house  for  a  fire  that  fades. 

Five  years  ago  and  we  might  have  feared  them, 
Been  drubbed  by  the  coward  and  taught  by  the  dunce; 
Truth  may  endure  and  be  told  and  re-echoed, 
But  a  lie  can  never  be  young  but  once. 

Five  years  ago  and  we  might  have  feared  them; 
Now,  when  they  lift  the  laurelled  brow, 
There  shall  naught  go  up  from  our  hosts  assembled 
But  a  laugh  like  thunder.    We  know  them  now. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WHEELS 

WRITTEN   DURING  A    FRIDAY   AND    SATURDAY   IN 
AUGUST   igil. 

KING  Dives  he  was  walking  in  his  garden  all 
alone, 
Where  his  flowers  are  made  of  iron  and  his 

trees  are  made  of  stone, 
And  his  hives  are  full  of  thunder  and  the  lightning 

leaps  and  kills, 
For  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly;  and  he  works 

with  other  mills. 
Dives  found  a  mighty  silence ;  and  he  missed  the  throb 

and  leap, 
The  noise  of  all  the  sleepless  creatures  singing  him 

to  sleep. 
And  he  said :  "A  screw  has  fallen — or  a  bolt  has  slipped 

aside — 

Some  little  thing  has  shifted":  and  the  little  things 
replied : 

"Call  upon  the  wheels,  master,  call  upon  the  wheels; 
We  are  taking  rest,  master,  finding  how  it  feels, 
Strict  the   law  of   thine  and  mine:    theft  we  ever 

shun — 
1x6 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    WHEELS 

All  the  wheels  are  thine,  master — tell  the  wheels  to 

run! 
Yea,  the  Wheels  are  mighty  gods — set  them  going 

then! 
We  are  only  men,  master,  have  you  heard  of  men? 

"O,  they  live  on  earth  like  fishes,  and  a  gasp  is  all 

their  breath. 
God  for  empty  honours  only  gave  them  death  and 

scorn  of  death, 
And  you  walk  the  worms  for  carpet  and  you  tread 

a  stone  that  squeals — 
Only,  God  that  made  them  worms  did  not  make  them 

wheels. 
Man  shall  shut  his  heart  against  you  and  you  shall  not 

find  the  spring. 

Man  who  wills  the  thing  he  wants  not,  the  intol- 
erable thing — 
Once  he  likes  his  empty  belly  better  than  your  empty 

head 
Earth  and  heaven  are  dumb  before  him :  he  is  stronger 

than  the  dead. 

"Call  upon  the  wheels,  master,  call  upon  the  wheels, 
Steel  is  beneath  your  hand,  stone  beneath  your  heels, 
Steel  will  never  laugh  aloud,  hearing  what  we  heard, 
Stone  will  never  break  its  heart,  mad  with  hope 

deferred — 

Men  of  tact  that  arbitrate,  slow  reform  that  heals — 
Save  the  stinking  grease,  master,  save  it  for  the  wheels. 

117 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    WHEELS 

"King  Dives  in  the  garden,  we  have  naught  to  give 

or  hold — 
(Even  while   the  baby  came   alive  the  rotten  sticks 

were  sold.) 
The  savage  knows  a  cavern  and  the  peasants  keep  a 

plot, 
Of  all  the  things  that  men  have  had — lo!  we  have 

them  not. 
Not   a   scrap   of   earth   where   ants   could   lay   their 

eggs — 
Only  this  poor  lump  of  earth  that  walks  about  on 

legs — 
Only  this  poor  wandering  mansion,  only  these  two 

walking  trees, 
Only  hands  and  hearts  and  stomachs — what  have  you 

to  do  with  these? 
You  have  engines  big  and  burnished,  tall  beyond  our 

fathers'  ken, 
Why  should  you  make  peace  and  traffic  with  such 

feeble  folk  as  men? 


"Call  upon  the  wheels,  master,  call  upon  the  wheels, 

They  are  deaf  to  demagogues,  deaf  to  crude  appeals; 

Are  our  hands  our  own,  master? — how  the  doctors 
doubt ! 

Are  our  legs  our  own,  master?  wheels  can  run  with- 
out— 

Prove  the  points  are  delicate — they  will  understand. 

All  the  wheels  are  loyal ;  see  how  still  they  stand !" 

118 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    WHEELS 

King  Dives  he  was  walking  in  his  garden  in  the  sun, 
He  shook  his  hand  at  heaven,  and  he  called  the  wheels 

to  run, 
And  the  eyes  of  him  were  hateful  eyes,  the  lips  of  him 

were  curled, 
And  he  called  upon  his  father  that  is  lord  below  the 

world, 
Sitting  in  the  Gate  of  Treason,  in  the  gate  of  broken 

seals, 
"Bend  and  bind  them,  bend  and  bind  them,  bend  and 

bind  them  into  wheels, 
Then  once  more  in  all  my  garden  there  may  swing 

and  sound  and  sweep — 
The  noise  of  all  the  sleepless  things  that  sing  the  soul 

to  sleep." 

Call  upon  the  wheels,  master,  call  upon  the  wheels, 
Weary  grow  the  holidays  when  you  miss  the  meals, 
Through  the  Gate  of  Treason,  through  the  gate  within, 
Cometh  fear  and  greed  of  fame,  cometh  deadly  sin; 
If  a  man  grow  faint,  master,  take  him  ere  he  kneels, 
Take  him,  break  him,  rend  him,  end  him,  roll  him, 
crush  him  with  the  wheels 


119 


THE  SECRET  PEOPLE 

SMILE  at  us,  pay  us,  pass  us;  but  do  not  quite 
forget. 
For  we  are  the  people  of  England,  that  never 

has  spoken  yet. 

There  is  many  a  fat  farmer  that  drinks  less  cheerfully, 
There  is  many  a  free  French  peasant  who  is  richer 

and  sadder  than  we. 
There  are  no  folk  in  the  whole  world  so  helpless  or 

so  wise. 
There  is  hunger  in  our  bellies,  there  is  laughter  in 

our  eyes; 
You  laugh  at  us  and  love  us,  both  mugs  and  eyes 

are  wet: 
Only  you  do  not  know  us.     For  we  have  not  spoken 

yet. 

The  fine  French  kings  came  over  in  a  flutter  of  flags 

and  dames. 
We  liked  their  smiles  and  battles,  but  we  never  could 

say   their  names. 
The  blood  ran  red  to  Bosworth  and  the  high  French 

lords  went  down; 
There  was  naught  but  a  naked  people  under  a  naked 

crown. 
1 20 


THE  SECRET   PEOPLE 

And  the  eyes  of  the  King's  Servants  turned  terribly 

every  way, 
And    the   gold  of  the   King's   Servants   rose  higher 

every  day. 
They  burnt  the  homes  of  the  shaven  men,  that  had 

been  quaint  and  kind, 
Till  there  was  no  bed  in  a  monk's  house,  nor  food 

that  man  could  find. 
The  inns  of  God  where  no  man  paid,  that  were  the 

wall  of  the  weak, 
The  King's  Servants  ate  them  all.    And  still  we  did 

not  speak. 


And  the   face  of  the  King's  Servants  grew  greater 

than  the  King: 
He  tricked  them,  and  they  trapped  him,   and  stood 

round  him  in  a  ring. 
The  new  grave  lords  closed  round  him,  that  had  eaten 

the  abbey's  fruits, 
And  the  men  of  the  new  religion,  with  their  bibles 

in  their  boots, 

We  saw  their  shoulders  moving,  to  menace  or  discuss, 
And  some  were  pure  and  some  were  vile;  but  none 

took  heed  of  us. 
We  saw  the  King  as  they  killed  him,  and  his  face 

was  proud  and  pale; 
And  a  few  men  talked  of  freedom,  while  England 

talked  of  ale. 

121 


THE   SECRET  PEOPLE 

A  war  that  we  understood  not  came  over  the  world 

and  woke 
Americans,  Frenchmen,  Irish;  but  we  knew  not  the 

things  they  spoke. 
They  talked  about  rights  and  nature  and  peace  and 

the  people's  reign: 
And  the  squires,  our  masters,  bade  us  fight ;  and  never 

scorned  us  again. 
Weak  if  we  be  for  ever,   could   none  condemn  us 

then; 
Men  called  us  serfs  and  drudges;  men  knew  that  we 

were  men. 

In  foam  and  flame  at  Trafalgar,  on  Albuera  plains, 
We  did  and  died  like  lions,  to  keep  ourselves  in  chains, 
We  lay  in  living  ruins;  firing  and  fearing  not 
The  strange  fierce  face  of  the  Frenchmen  who  knew 

for  what  they  fought, 
And  the  man  who  seemed  to  be  more  than  man  we 

strained  against  and  broke; 
And  we  broke  our  own  rights  with  him.     And  still 

we  never  spoke. 


Our  patch  of  glory  ended ;  we  never  heard  guns  again. 
But  the  squire  seemed  struck  in  the  saddle;  he  was 

foolish,  as  if  in  pain 
He   leaned   on   a  staggering  lawyer,   he   clutched   a 

cringing  Jew, 
He  was  stricken ;  it  may  be,  after  all,  he  was  stricken 

at  Waterloo. 
122 


THE   SECRET  PEOPLE 

Or  perhaps  the  shades  of  the  shaven  men,  whose  spoil 

is  in  his  house, 
Come  back  in  shining  shapes  at  last  to  spoil  his  last 

carouse : 
We  only  know  the  last  sad  squires  ride  slowly  towards 

the  sea, 
And  a  new  people  takes  the  land :  and  still  it  is  not  we. 

They  have  given  us  into  the  hand  of  the  new  unhappy 

lords, 
Lords  without  anger  and  honour,  who  dare  not  carry 

their  swords. 
They  fight  by  shuffling  papers;  they  have  bright  dead 

alien  eyes; 
They  look  at  our  labour  and  laughter  as  a  tired  man 

looks  at  flies. 
And  the  load  of  their  loveless  pity  is  worse  than  the 

ancient  wrongs, 
Their  doors  are  shut  in  the  evening;  and  they  know 

no  songs. 

We  hear  men  speaking  for  us  of  new  laws  strong 

and  sweet, 
Yet  is  there  no  man  speaketh  as  we  speak  in  the 

street. 
It  may  be  we  shall  rise  the  last  as  Frenchmen  rose  the 

first, 
Our  wrath  come  after  Russia's  wrath  and  our  wrath 

be  the  worst. 

123 


THE   SECRET   PEOPLE 

It  may  be  we  are  meant  to  mark  with  our  riot  and 

our  rest 
God's  scorn  for  all  men  governing.     It  may  be  beer 

is  best. 
But  we  are  the  people  of   England;   and  we  have 

not  spoken  yet. 
Smile  at  us,  pay  us,  pass  us.    But  do  not  quite  forget. 


124 


VI 
MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


LOST 

SO  you  have  gained  the  golden  crowns,  so  you  have 
piled  together 
The  laurels  and  the  jewels,  the  pearls  out  of 

the  blue, 
But  I  will  beat  the  bounding  drum  and   I  will  fly 

the  feather 
For  all  the  glory  I  have  lost,  the  good  I  never  knew. 

I  saw  the  light  of  morning  pale  on  princely  human 

faces, 

In  tales  irrevocably  gone,  in  final  night  enfurled, 
I  saw  the  tail  of  flying  fights,  a  glimpse  of  burning 

blisses, 

And  laughed  to  think  what  I  had  lost — the  wealth 
of  all  the  world. 

Yea,  ruined  in  a  royal  game  I  was  before  my  cradle; 
Was  ever  gambler  hurling  gold  who  lost  such  things 

as  I? 
The  purple  moth  that  died  an  hour  ere  I  was  born  of 

woman, 

That  great  green  sunset  God  shall  make  three  days 
after  I  die. 

127 


LOST 

When  all  the  lights  are  lost  and  done,  when  all  the 
skies  are  broken, 

Above  the  ruin  of  the  stars  my  soul  shall  sit  in  state, 
With  a  brain  made  rich,  with  the  irrevocable  sunsets, 

And  a  closed  heart  happy  in  the  fullness  of  a  fate. 

So  you  have  gained  the  golden  crowns  and  grasped 

the  golden  weather, 
The  kingdoms  and  the  hemispheres  that  all  men 

buy  and  sell, 
But  I  will  lash  the  leaping  drum  and  swing  the  flaring 

feather, 

For  the  light  of  seven  heavens  that  are  lost  to  me 
like  hell. 


128 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SUN 

OWELL  for  him  that  loves  the  sun, 
That  sees  the  heaven-race  ridden  or  run, 
The  splashing  seas  of  sunset  won, 
And  shouts  for  victory. 

God  made  the  sun  to  crown  his  head, 
And  when  death's  dart  at  last  is  sped, 
At  least  it  will  not  find  him  dead, 
And  pass  the  carrion  by. 

O  ill  for  him  that  loves  the  sun; 
Shall  the  sun  stoop  for  anyone? 
Shall  the  sun  weep  for  hearts  undone 
Or  heavy  souls  that  pray? 

Not  less  for  us  and  everyone 
Was  that  white  web  of  splendour  spun; 
O  well  for  him  who  loves  the  sun 
Although  the  sun  should  slay. 


129 


TRANSLATION  FROM  DU  BELLAY 

HAPPY,  who  like  Ulysses  or  that  lord 
Who  raped  the  fleece,  returning  full  and 
sage, 
With  usage  and  the  world's  wide  reason  stored, 

With  his  own  kin  can  wait  the  end  of  age. 
When  shall  I  see,  when  shall  I  see,  God  knows! 

My  little  village  smoke;  or  pass  the  door, 
The  old  dear  door  of  that  unhappy  house 

That  is  to  me  a  kingdom  and  much  more? 
Mightier  to  me  the  house  my  fathers  made 

Than  your  audacious  heads,  O  Halls  of  Rome! 
More  than  immortal  marbles  undecayed, 

The  thin  sad  slates  that  cover  up  my  home; 
More  than  your  Tiber  is  my  Loire  to  me, 

Than  Palatine  my  little  Lyre  there; 
And  more  than  all  the  winds  of  all  the  sea 

The  quiet  kindness  of  the  Angevin  air. 


130 


THE  HIGHER  UNITY 

"The  Rev.  Isaiah  Bunter  has  disappeared  into  the  interior 
of  the  Solomon  Islands,  and  it  is  feared  that  he  may  have 
been  devoured  by  the  natives,  as  there  has  been  a  consider- 
able revival  of  religious  customs  among  the  Polynesians." 

A  real  paragraph  from  a  real  Paper;  only  the  names  al- 
tered. 

IT  was  Isaiah  Bunter 
Who  sailed  to  the  world's  end, 
And  spread  religion  in  a  way 
That  he  did  not  intend. 

He  gave,  if  not  the  gospel-feast, 

At  least  a  ritual  meal; 
And  in  a  highly  painful  sense 

He  was  devoured  with  zeal. 

And  who  are  we  (as  Henson  says) 
That  we  should  close  the  door? 

And  should  not  Evangelicals 
All  jump  at  shedding  Gore? 

And  many  a  man  will  melt  in  man, 

Becoming  one,  not  two, 
When  smacks  across  the  startled  earth 

The  Kiss  of  Kikuyu. 

131 


THE  HIGHER    UNITY 

When  Man  is  the  Turk,  and  the  Atheist, 
Essene,  Erastian  Whig, 
And  the  Thug  and  the  Druse  and  the  Catholic, 
And  the  crew  of  the  Captain's  gig. 


13* 


THE  EARTH'S  VIGIL 

THE  old  earth  keepeth  her  watch  the  same. 
Alone  in  a  voiceless  void  doth  stand, 
Her  orange  flowers  in  her  bosom  flame, 
Her  gold  ring  in  her  hand. 
The  surfs  of  the  long  gold-crested  morns 

Break  ever  more  at  her  great  robe's  hem, 
And  evermore  come  the  bleak  moon-horns, 
But  she  keepeth  not  watch  for  them. 

She  keepeth  her  watch  through  the  aeons, 
But  the  heart  of  her  groweth  not  old, 

For  the  peal  of  the  bridegroom's  paeans, 
And  the  tale  she  once  was  told. 

The  nations  shock  and  the  cities  reel, 

The  empires  travail  and  rive  and  rend, 
And  she  looks  on  havoc  and  smoke  and  steel, 

And  knoweth  it  is  not  the  end. 
The  faiths  may  choke  and  the  powers  despair, 

The  powers  re-arise  and  the  faiths  renew, 
She  is  only  a  maiden,  waiting  there, 

For  the  love  whose  word  is  true. 

She  keepeth  her  watch  through  the  aeons, 
But  the  heart  of  her  groweth  not  old, 

133 


THE   EARTH'S   VIGIL 

For  the  peal  of  the  bridegroom's  paeans, 
And  the  tale  she  once  was  told. 

Through  the  cornfield's  gleam  and  the  cottage  shade, 

They  wait  unwearied,  the  young  and  old, 
Mother  for  child  and  man  for  maid, 

For  a  love  that  once  was  told. 
The  hair  grows  grey  under  thatch  or  slates, 

The  eyes  grow  dim  behind  lattice  panes, 
The  earth-race  wait  as  the  old  earth  waits, 

And  the  hope  in  the  heart  remains. 

She  keepeth  her  watch  through  the  aeons, 
But  the  heart  of  her  groweth  not  old, 

For  the  peal  of  the  bridegroom's  paeans, 
And  the  tale  she  once  was  told. 

God's  gold  ring  on  her  hand  is  bound, 

She  fires  with  blossom  the  grey  hill-sides, 
Her  fields  are  quickened,  her  forests  crowned, 

While  the  love  of  her  heart  abides, 
And  we  from  the  fears  that  fret  and  mar 

Look  up  in  hours  and  behold  awhile 
Her  face,  colossal,  mid  star  on  star, 

Still  looking  forth  with  a  smile. 

She  keepeth  her  watch  through  the  aeons, 
But  the  heart  of  her  groweth  not  old, 

For  the  peal  of  the  bridegroom's  paeans, 

And  the  tale  she  once  was  told. 
134 


ON  RIGHTEOUS  INDIGNATION 

WHEN  Adam  went  from  Paradise 
He  saw  the  Sword  and  ran; 
The  dreadful  shape,  the  new  device, 
The  pointed  end  of   Paradise, 
And  saw  what  Peril  is  and  Price, 
And  knew  he  was  a  man. 


When  Adam  went  from  Paradise, 

He  turned  him  back  and  cried 
For  a  little  flower  from  Paradise; 
There  came  no  flower  from  Paradise; 
The  woods  were  dark  in  Paradise, 

And  not  a  bird  replied. 

For  only  comfort  or  contempt, 

For  jest  or  great  reward, 
Over  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
The  flameless  gates  of  Paradise, 
The  dumb  shut  doors  of  Paradise, 

God  flung  the  flaming  sword. 

It  burns  the  hand  that  holds  it 
More  than  the  skull  it  scores; 

135 


ON  RIGHTEOUS  INDIGNATION 

It  doubles  like  a  snake  and  stings, 
Yet  he  in  whose  hand  it  swings 
He  is  the  most  masterful  of  things, 
A  scorner  of  the  stars. 


136 


WHEN  I  CAME  BACK  TO  FLEET 
STREET 

WHEN  I  came  back  to  Fleet  Street, 
Through  a  sunset  nook  at  night, 
And  saw  the  old  Green  Dragon 
With  the  windows  all  alight, 
And  hailed  the  old  Green  Dragon 

And  the  Cock  I  used  to  know, 
Where  all  good  fellows  were  my  friends 
A  little  while  ago; 

I  had  been  long  in  meadows, 

And  the  trees  took  hold  of  me, 
And  the  still  towns  in  the  beech-woods, 

Where  men  were  meant  to  be. 
But  old  things  held;  the  laughter, 

The  long  unnatural  night, 
And  all  the  truth  they  talk  in  hell, 

And  all  the  lies  they  write. 

For  I  came  back  to  Fleet  Street, 

And  not  in  peace  I  came; 
A  cloven  pride  was  in  my  heart, 

And  half  my  love  was  shame. 

'37 


I  came  to  fight  in  fairy-tale, 

Whose  end  shall  no  man  know- 
To  fight  the  old  Green  Dragon 
Until  the  Cock  shall  crow ! 


Under  the  broad  bright  windows 

Of  men  I  serve  no  more, 
The  groaning  of  the  old  great  wheels 

Thickened  to  a  throttled  roar ; 
All  buried  things  broke  upward ; 

And  peered  from  its  retreat, 
Ugly  and  silent,  like  an  elf, 

The  secret  of  the  street. 


They  did  not  break  the  padlocks, 

Or  clear  the  wall  away. 
The  men  in  debt  that  drank  of  old 

Still  drink  in  debt  to-day  ; 
Chained  to  the  rich  by  ruin, 

Cheerful  in  .chains,  as  then 
When  old  unbroken  Pickwick  walked 

Among  the  broken  men. 


Still  he  that  dreams  and  rambles 

Through  his  own  elfin  air, 
Knows  that  the  street's  a  prison, 

Knows  that  the  gates  are  there: 
138 


WHEN  I  CAME  BACK  TO  FLEET  STREET 

Still  he  that  scorns  or  struggles 

Sees,  frightful  and  afar, 
All  that  they  leave  of  rebels 

Rot  high  on  Temple  Bar. 


All  that  I  loved  and  hated, 

All  that  I  shunned  and  knew, 
Clears  in  broad  battle  lightning, 

Where  they,  and  I,  and  you, 
Run  high  the  barricade  that  breaks 

The  barriers  of  the  street, 
And  shout  to  them  that  shrink  within, 

The  Prisoners  of  the  Fleet. 


139 


A  CIDER  SONG 

To  J.  S.  M. 

EXTRACT     FROM     A     ROMANCE     WHICH     IS     NOT     YET 
WRITTEN  AND  PROBABLY  NEVER  WILL  BE. 

THE  wine  they  drink  in  Paradise 
They  make  in  Haute  Lorraine; 
God  brought  it  burning  from  the  sod 
To  be  a  sign  and  signal  rod 
That  they  that  drink  the  blood  of  God 
Shall  never  thirst  again. 

The  wine  they  praise  in  Paradise 
They  make  in  Ponterey, 
The  purple  wine  of  Paradise, 
But  we  have  better  at  the  price; 
It's  wine  they  praise  in  Paradise, 
It's  cider  that  they  pray. 

The  wine  they  want  in  Paradise 
They  find  in  Plodder's  End, 
The  apple  wine  of  Hereford, 
Of  Hafod  Hill  and  Hereford, 
Where  woods  went  down  to  Hereford, 
And  there  I  had  a  friend. 
140 


A   CIDER  SONG 

The  soft  feet  of  the  blessed  go 

In  the  soft  western  vales, 

The  road  the  silent  saints  accord, 

The  road  from  Heaven  to  Hereford, 

Where  the  apple  wood  of  Hereford 

Goes  all  the  way  to  Wales. 


THE  LAST  HERO 

THE  wind    blew  out  from    Bergen    from  the 
dawning  to  the  day, 
There  was  a  wreck  of  trees  and  fall  of  towers 

a  score  of  miles  away, 

And  drifted  like  a  livid  leaf  I  go  before  its  tide, 
Spewed  out  of  house  and  stable,  beggared  of  flag  and 

bride. 
The  heavens  are  bowed  about  my  head,  shouting 

like  seraph  wars, 
With  rains  that  might  put  out  the  sun  and  clean  the 

sky  of  stars, 
Rains  like  the  fall  of  ruined  seas  from  secret  worlds 

above, 
The  roaring  of  the  rains  of  God  none  but  the  lonely 

love. 
Feast  in  my  hall,  O  foemen,  and  eat  and  drink  and 

drain, 

You  never  loved  the  sun  in  heaven  as  I  have  loved 
the  rain. 

The  chance  of  battle  changes — so  may  all  battle  be ; 
I  stole  my  lady  bride  from  them,  they  stole  her  back 

from  me. 
I  rent  her  from  her  red-roofed  hall,  I  rode  and  savr 

arise 
142 


THE   LAST  HERO 

More  lovely  than  the  living  flowers  the  hatred  in  her 

eyes. 
She  never  loved  me,  never  bent,   never  was  less 

divine ; 
The  sunset  never  loved  me;  the  wind  was  never 

mine. 

Was  it  all  nothing  that  she  stood  imperial  in  duresse  ? 
Silence  itself  made  softer  with  the  sweeping  of  her 

dress. 
O  you  who  drain  the  cup  of  life,  O  you  who  wear 

the  crown, 
You  never  loved  a  woman's  smile  as  I  have  loved 

her  frown. 


The  wind  blew  out  from  Bergen  from  the  dawning 

to  the  day, 
They  ride  and  run  with  fifty  spears  to  break  and  bar 

my  way, 

I  shall  not  die  alone,  alone,  but  kin  to  all  the  powers, 
As  merry  as  the  ancient  sun  and  fighting  like  the 

flowers. 
How  white  their  steel,  how  bright  their  eyes !    I  love 

each  laughing  knave, 
Cry  high  and  bid  him  welcome  to  the  banquet  of  the 

brave. 
Yea,  I  will  bless  them  as  they  bend  and  love  them 

where  they  lie, 

When  on  their  skulls  the  sword  I  swing  falls  shatter- 
ing from  the  sky. 

143 


THE  LAST  HERO 

The  hour  when  death  is  like  a  light  and  blood  is 

like  a  rose, — 
You  never  loved  your  friends,  my  friends,  as  I  shall 

love  my  foes. 

Know  you  what  earth  shall  lose  to-night,  what  rich, 

uncounted  loans, 
What  heavy  gold  of  tales  untold  you  bury  with  my 

bones  ? 
My  loves  in  deep  dim  meadows,  my  ships  that  rode 

at  ease, 

Ruffling  the  purple  plumage  of  strange  and  secret  seas. 
To  see  this  fair  earth  as  it  is  to  me  alone  was  given, 
The  blow  that  breaks  my  brow  to-night  shall  break 

the  dome  of  heaven. 
The  skies  I  saw,  the  trees  I  saw  after  no  eyes  shall 

see. 
To-night  I  die  the  death  of  God;  the  stars  shall 

die  with  me: 
One  sound  shall  sunder  all  the  spears  and  break  the 

trumpet's  breath : 
You  never  laughed  in  all  your  life  as  I  shall  laugh  in 

death. 


144 


VII 
BALLADES 


BALLADE  D'UNE  GRANDE  DAME 

HEAVEN  shall  forgive  you  Bridge  at  dawn, 
The  clothes  you  wear — or  do  not  wear — 
And  Ladies'  Leap-frog  on  the  lawn 
And  dyes  and  drugs,  and  petits  verres. 
Your  vicious  things  shall  melt  in  air  ... 
.  .  .  But  for  the  Virtuous  Things  you  do, 
The  Righteous  Work,  the  Public  Care, 
It  shall  not  be  forgiven  you. 

Because  you  could  not  even  yawn 
When  your  Committees  would  prepare 
To  have  the  teeth  of  paupers  drawn, 
Or  strip  the  slums  of  Human  Hair; 
Because  a  Doctor  Otto  Maehr 
Spoke  of  "a  segregated  few" — 
And  you  sat  smiling  in  your  chair — 
It  shall  not  be  forgiven  you. 

Though  your  sins  cried  to — Father  Vaughan, 
These  desperate  you  could  not  spare 
Who  steal,  with  nothing  left  to  pawn; 
You  caged  a  man  up  like  a  bear 
For  ever  in  a  jailor's  care 
Because  his  sins  were  more  than  two  .  .  . 
...  I  know  a  house  in  Hoxton  where 
It  shall  not  be  forgiven  you. 


BALLADE   D' U  N  E   GRANDE   DAME 

ENVOI 

Princess,  you  trapped  a  guileless  Mayor 
To  meet  some  people  that  you  knew  .  .  . 
When  the  Last  Trumpet  rends  the  air 
It  shall  not  be  forgiven  you. 


148 


A  BALLADE  OF  AN  ANTI-PURITAN 

THEY  spoke  of  Progress  spiring  round, 
Of  Light  and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward — 
It  is  not  true  to  say  I  frowned, 
Or  ran  about  the  room  and  roared; 
I  might  have  simply  sat  and  snored — 
I  rose  politely  in  the  club 
And  said,  "I  feel  a  little  bored ; 
Will  someone  take  me  to  a  pub  ?" 

The  new  world's  wisest  did  surround 
Me ;  and  it  pains  me  to  record 
I  did  not  think  their  views  profound, 
Or  their  conclusions  well  assured; 
The  simple  life  I  can't  afford, 
Besides,  I  do  not  like  the  grub — 
I  want  a  mash  and  sausage,  "scored" — 
Will  someone  take  me  to  a  pub? 

I  know  where  Men  can  still  be  found, 
Anger  and  clamorous  accord, 
And  virtues  growing  from  the  ground, 
And  fellowship  of  beer  and  board, 
And  song,  that  is  a  sturdy  cord, 
And  hope,  that  is  a  hardy  shrub, 
And  goodness,  that  is  God's  last  word — 
Will  someone  take  me  to  a  pub  ? 

149 


A   BALLADE  OF  AN  A N T I -PU RI  T A$ 


ENVOI 


Prince,  Bayard  would  have  smashed  his  sword 
To  see  the  sort  of  knights  you  dub — 
Is  that  the  last  of  them — O  Lord! 
Will  someone  take  me  to  a  pub  ? 


150 


A  BALLADE  OF  A  BOOK-REVIEWER 

I  HAVE  not  read  a  rotten  page 
Of  "Sex-Hate"  or  "The  Social  Test," 
And  here  comes  "Husks"  and  "Heritage"  . 

0  Moses,  give  us  all  a  rest! 
"Ethics  of  Empire" !  .  .  .  I  protest 

1  will  not  even  cut  the  strings, 

I'll  read  "Jack  Redskin  on  the  Quest" 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 

Somebody  wants  a  Wiser  Age 
(He  also  wants  me  to  invest)  ; 
Somebody  likes  the  Finnish  Stage 
Because  the  Jesters  do  not  jest; 
And  grey  with  dust  is  Dante's  crest, 
The  bell  of  Rabelais  soundless  swings; 
And  the  winds  come  out  of  the  west 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 

Lord  of  our  laughter  and  our  rage, 
Look  on  us  with  our  sins  oppressed ! 
I,  too,  have  trodden  mine  heritage, 
Wickedly  wearying  of  the  best. 
Burn  from  my  brain  and  from  my  breast 
Sloth,  and  the  cowardice  that  clings, 
And  stiffness  and  the  soul's  arrest: 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 


A   BALLADE   OF  A   BOOK-REVIEWER 

ENVOI 

Prince,  you  are  host  and  I  am  guest, 
Therefore  I  shrink  from  cavillings  .  .  . 
But  I  should  have  that  fizz  suppressed 
And  feed  my  brain  with  better  things. 


152 


A  BALLADE  OF  SUICIDE 

THE  gallows  in  my  garden,  people  say, 
Is  new  and  neat  and  adequately  tall. 
I  tie  the  noose  on  in  a  knowing  way 
As  one  that  knots  his  necktie  for  a  ball; 
But  just  as  all  the  neighbours — on  the  wall — 
Are  drawing  a  long  breath  to  shout  "Hurray!" 
The  strangest  whim  has  seized  me.  .  .  .  After  all 
I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  to-day. 

To-morrow  is  the  time  I  get  my  pay — 

My  uncle's  sword  is  hanging  in  the  hall — 

I  see  a  little  cloud  all  pink  and  grey — 

Perhaps  the  rector's  mother  will  not  call — 

I  fancy  that  I  heard  from  Mr.  Gall 

That  mushrooms  could  be  cooked  another  way — 

I  never  read  the  works  of  Juvenal — 

I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  to-day. 

The  world  will  have  another  washing  day; 

The  decadents  decay;  the  pedants  pall; 

And  H.  G.  Wells  has  found  that  children  play, 

And  Bernard  Shaw  discovered  that  they  squall; 

Rationalists  are  growing  rational — 

And  through  thick  woods  one  finds  a  stream  astray, 

So  secret  that  the  very  sky  seems  small — 

I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  to-day. 

153 


A   BALLADE   OF  SUICIDE 

ENVOI 

Prince,  I  can  hear  the  trumpet  of  Germinal, 
The  tumbrils  toiling  up  the  terrible  way; 
Even  to-day  your  royal  head  may  fall — 
I  think  I  will  not  hang  myself  to-day. 


154 


A  BALLADE  OF  THE  FIRST  RAIN 

THE  sky  is  blue  with  summer  and  the  sun, 
The  woods  are  brown  as  autumn  with  the  tan, 
It  might  as  well  be  Tropics  and  be  done, 
I  might  as  well  be  born  a  copper  Khan ; 
I  fashion  me  an  oriental  fan 
Made  of  the  wholly  unreceipted  bills 
Brought  by  the  ice-man,  sleeping  in  his  van 
(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

I  read  the  Young  Philosophers  for  fun 

— Fresh  as  our  sorrow  for  the  late  Queen  Anne — 

The  Dionysians  whom  a  pint  would  stun, 

The  Pantheists  who  never  heard  of  Pan. 

— But  through  my  hair  electric  needles  ran, 

And  on  my  book  a  gout  of  water  spills, 

And  on  the  skirts  of  heaven  the  guns  began 

(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

O  fields  of  England,  cracked  and  dry  and  dun, 
O  soul  of  England,  sick  of  words,  and  wan ! — 
The  clouds  grow  dark; — the  down-rush  has  begun. 
— It  comes,  it  comes,  as  holy  darkness  can, 
Black  as  with  banners,  ban  and  arriere-ban; 
A  falling  laughter  all  the  valley  fills, 
Deep  as  God's  thunder  and  the  thirst  of  man: 
(A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills). 

155 


A   BALLADE   OF   THE  FIRST  RAIN 

ENVOI 

Prince,  Prince-Elective  on  the  modern  plan, 
Fulfilling  such  a  lot  of  People's  Wills, 
You  take  the  Chiltern  Hundreds  while  you  can — 
A  storm  is  coming  on  the  Chiltern  Hills. 


156 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date«tamped  below. 

-  -.  r?.'.  I'-'        


COL.  UB» 


0  7  79  14  DAY 
12  NOV'79 


RECCL 


&  7  FEB  1981 
WY8    '81  14  HAY 


Book  Slip-15wi-8,'58(5890s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 


L  005  671   139  3 


A    001  288932    5 


